


& i'll let the ink from your skin stain my fingertips

by flyingsolo_flyingfree



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barebacking, Bottom Dean, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, In which Sam goes to Stanford Law and there aren't a shit ton of monsters errywhere, M/M, Rimming, Smut, Top Castiel, a wee bit of bibliophilia, librarian!cas, pierced and tattooed!Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingsolo_flyingfree/pseuds/flyingsolo_flyingfree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Emilia K. Wadham library is located just outside the town of Stanford California, and it’s the only library in the area not owned by the University. So when Dean started coming in two months ago, he immediately attracted everyone’s attention, starting from the moment he parked his motorcycle outside. If Dean felt every library patron’s eyes on him when he walked in, he didn’t show it. Maybe he’d grown used to it. It was probably a combination between the skinny jeans, the piercings, and the tattoos that were visible even when Dean wore his black leather jacket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> based on a tumblr post by lilypond.co.vu, which read: 
> 
> "i want sweet gentle dean pierced everywhere and covered in tattoos and looking all tough and scary in his leather jacket and his big black car
> 
> and reserved librarian cas with his big shy eyes being a complete animal in bed and pinning dean down and getting him whimpering and pleading under him every night"
> 
> Although, disclaimer, it's a motorcycle instead of a car.

When Castiel is assigned to go organize the biography section, he’s already pretty stoked.

No, really.

Whenever he ends up in bios, he tries to select one biography (or, usually, more than one) of a person he’s never heard of, and read it within a week. He is always astounded by the amount of human beings whose breathtaking contributions to society go entirely under the radar. It’s fantastic that they teach kids about Martin Luther King Jr. and Harriet Tubman and Sacagawea, but there are so many others, so many vitally important people who go unappreciated. It’s part of the reason Cas likes working at the library—the wealth of information at his fingertips is enough to make his head spin.

Today, though, Cas is more than pumped, he’s positively ecstatic to be assigned to biographies. Because today, Dean Winchester walks in (Cas spies him through the shelves), shows a slip of paper to Kara at the front desk, and she points him in Cas’ direction.

Cas immediately focuses on the cart in front of him and makes a show of filing books with extreme care and diligence, but he thinks Dean might’ve seen him staring. He swears under his breath as his cheeks heat up, cursing his complexion and propensity to blush at practically anything.

The Emilia K. Wadham library is located just outside the town of Stanford California, and it’s the only library in the area not owned by the University. Most of the people who come in are either a) Professors, who want to do work without being surrounded by a sea of raging hormones and alcohol, and b) children—they’ve got the biggest children’s section within a twenty mile radius.

So when Dean started coming in two months ago, he immediately attracted everyone’s attention, starting from the moment he parked his motorcycle outside. If Dean felt every library patron’s eyes on him when he walked in, he didn’t show it. Maybe he’d grown used to it. It was probably a combination between the skinny jeans, the piercings, and the tattoos that were visible even when Dean wore his black leather jacket. Cas had always been a bit squeamish with piercings, but Dean only had a few (that Cas knew of): his left eyebrow, his septum, and several on each ear, mostly small silver hoops and a single bar through two parts of the cartilage on his right ear. Cas had seen Dean without his leather jacket twice, and had tried to catalogue the tattoos on his arms, but he couldn’t keep track of them. Even when Dean wore his jacket, the dragon tattoo that began on the left side of his neck was always visible. It begins near his vocal cords and winds its way down and under Dean’s shirt. That tattoo alone was the jumping point of several of Cas’ fantasies (off the top of his head, he could think of at least four). Once he and Dean began to talk, Cas wondered about the meanings behind Dean’s tattoos, but he can never bring himself to ask.

Cas hears the sound of leather—until he met Dean Winchester, Cas didn't even realize leather had a sound—before Dean turns the corner, and when Dean sees him, he has the good grace to at least pretend he didn’t see Cas gawking at him thirty seconds before.

“Hey, Castiel. Kara sent me to you. Can you help me find this one?”

He shows Cas the same crumpled slip he’d shown to Kara, notebook paper that has a call number scrawled on it, along with a coffee stain and an ink smudge.

“Hi, Dean,” Cas returns with a small smile, holding out his hand to take the number for closer examination; Sam's handwriting is chicken-scratch. He really hopes his cheeks aren’t as red as he thinks they probably are as his fingers brush Dean’s, who must pity him because he coughs once and turns to face the stacks of books in front of them.

“Man. I know there’s a very calculated system to this, but it never ceases to amaze me that this is all mapped out in your head,” Dean says, looking up at the shelf in astonishment. He looks like an awestruck child, and Cas swallows around some emotion that, at the moment, he tries his damnedest not to identify. It’s quiet for a few moments before (blessedly) Dean decides to fill the silence.

“Sammy was beating himself up for coming home with a B on his most recent exam.” He chuckles incredulously. “Can you believe that? A flat B, not even a B minus!”

Cas turns to glance at Dean while his fingers brush along book spines, and he thinks he sees Dean’s eyes flicker to his hands. Interesting. Immediately, though, Cas squelches the hope in his chest, calling himself a delusional fool.

“Did you remind him he’s at Stanford Law School?”

Dean leans on his elbow against a shelf, and Cas has to avert his eyes back to the task at hand before he actually gets a hard on at work. Dean propped against the stacks, one pierced eyebrow raised at Cas, his tee shirt lifting just enough to show a strip of skin at his belly—it’s nearly pornographic.

“Yeah, I always do, but that’s just who Sam is.” Dean shakes his head. “Anyway. He has some sort of fifty-something page report about an influential lawyer, and even though the assignment was given out yesterday, he wants to finish it by the end of the week. He’s absurd.”

Cas makes a noise of assent as he locates the book, carefully removing it from the shelf and noting the title. “Well, your brother certainly chose a prominent lawyer,” he says, handing the book to Dean.

“You know of him?”

Cas nods. “Anthony Kennedy isn’t a lawyer anymore, now he’s a Supreme Court Associate Justice. A lot of very important cases are debated in his court, and more often than not, the jury is divided straight down the middle.”

Dean gives him a look that’s a cross between astonishment and admiration.

“Is there anyone you don’t know?” Dean says, tucking the book under his arm. Cas starts to answer that, yes, there are plenty of people he doesn’t know, but Dean cuts him off. “Seriously, dude. I think you belong at Stanford with Sammy.”

The retort Cas was about to make dies on his lips. He went to De Anza Community College because he couldn’t afford anything else. Back in high school, though, he dreamed of attending Stanford. It was partially due to the societal status a diploma from Stanford would give him, but it was mostly because he wanted to be regarded at that level of intelligence. He gapes at Dean for a few seconds, certain this time that he’s blushing. He isn’t sure how to express his gratitude.

He finally settles with a simple, “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head. “I should be thanking you. You always help me find Sammy’s books. Pretty sure ‘helping a scary man find his kid brother’s law books at least once a week’ is not technically part of your job description.”

“You’re not scary,” Cas immediately protests, a knee jerk response that surprises both of them. Dean gives him a quizzical glance, and apparently Cas is feeling braver than normal, because after that, the words just all spill out.

“You don’t have to thank me, Dean. I think it’s really sweet that you’re willing to come get books for Sam. You’re a good big brother. He’s lucky to have you.”

Dean’s eyes widen, and Cas thinks his own eyes are probably just as wide, because up until now, he’s kept his conversations with Dean in the realm of small talk, unassuming and innocent and not particularly personal. Dean is frozen for a moment, lips parted, and Cas thinks, _this is it, I blew it_ , before Dean shifts his weight and clears his throat.

“That means a lot, Cas. Thanks.” His voice is gruff, pitched lower than normal, cracking somewhere in the middle of the sentence, and Cas can only nod at this point as he attempts to recover from his own shock.

Dean smiles, though—it’s a fond smile that makes Cas’ heart stutter—and he holds out his fist. It takes Cas a full five seconds before he realizes he’s being prompted for a fist bump, because he’s an _idiot_.

“I’ll see you soon, man,” Dean says, and Cas doesn’t really have time to assemble his thoughts before Dean steps out from between the shelves and a little girl barrels into him, running at full tilt.

She scrambles back to her feet, and her brother (who’d been chasing her around the library for at least fifteen minutes by now) stops in his tracks at the sight of Dean. The girl, who can’t be more than four, turns and hides behind her big brother’s legs, peeking out slightly to look at Dean while still pretending she’s invisible.

Cas can only watch as Dean squats down to her eye level.

“Hey.”

The girl looks up at her brother, fear on her face. He’s sizing Dean up warily, like he can’t decide if this is a “don’t talk to strangers” scenario, or if Dean is the really cool older brother he wishes he could have.

Dean is patient, though. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you running there. Are you okay?”

She tugs at her shirt hem self-consciously and steps out from behind her brother, who’s still analyzing Dean cautiously.

“It’s okay,” she says, so quiet that it’s almost inaudible, but Dean smiles at her. Her brother begins to relax, and Cas thinks he may even see the hint of a smile on his face.

“See? Not so scary, right?” Dean says, chuckling. By now, the girl’s figured out that Dean isn’t a Big Scary Man, so she walks right up to him, still staring at him in the shameless manner little kids have. Dean lets her, and now her brother approaches him too, putting his hand on his sister’s shoulder.

“Why do you have all those drawings all over you?” she asks, and her brother smacks her shoulder lightly, embarrassed.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Dean tells him, then he regards her earnestly, seriously. 

“All of these drawings are all different things that are very important to me, they mean a lot to me. So I put them on my skin.”

She nods, mulling this over. She reaches for Dean and when he doesn’t flinch, she lays little fingers on his neck. “What’s this one?”

Dean shrugs his jacket off of his left shoulder, so he can pull his tee shirt down, revealing the whole of his dragon tattoo, which spans from his neck to his pectoral muscle. It’s black and the small flame coming from its open mouth is red, but there are a few green scales etched on its body. It’s even more beautiful in its entirety. Cas fights a flare of jealousy as she runs her fingers down the length of it, and even her brother mutters, “Awesome,” under his breath. Dean grins at both of them.

“Do you two ever read fairytales? You know, they start with ‘Once upon a time,’ and there are princesses and knights, and they usually end with ‘happily ever after.’ Do you ever read those?”

The little girl’s eyes light up, and the boy folds his arms and scoffs, “Those are for babies.”

“Well, when I was little, my mom used to read them to me. I never really cared about the princesses or princes—they were always the same, fighting for chivalry and honor and all that stuff—but I always liked the dragons. I thought they were the brave ones. So my mom used to tell me, ‘Dean, be brave like a dragon.’”

The little girl is looking at Dean like he put the sun in the sky, and Cas thinks he probably has a similar expression on his own face as he watches Dean straighten his jacket and stand up. He ruffles the girl’s hair, and she giggles. He holds out his hand and the brother gives him a zealous high five. Dean then turns and catches Cas’ eye, giving him a shy wave and the same heart-wrenching smile from minutes before.

 

After he rides off on his motorcycle, the boy and the girl spend the remainder of their time playing knights and dragons. They fight over who gets to be the dragon.

 

And Cas, Cas sees Dean’s smile over and over in his head. Oh yeah, he’s screwed.


	2. Chapter 2

Cas is sitting on a wooden stool, sorting and alphabetizing the return cart when Dean comes back three days later. He comes inside to return the book, because Cas had offhandedly mentioned how much it annoyed him when people leave their books in the book drop outside while the library is open, and evidently, Dean remembered. He makes small talk with Kara, sliding the book through the slot underneath the checkout desk. He turns, then, his eyes scanning the room.

Cas hears Kara say, “If you’re looking for Cas, he’s in the mysteries section.” She’s smirking knowingly, and okay, yeah, fine, he knows that his feelings for Dean are fairly obvious to the entire library staff.

His mortification dulls significantly, though, when Dean smiles at her, all charm and genuine good will, and says, “Thanks, Kara.”

Cas watches Dean make his way through the different sections, meandering over to the Mystery shelf along the back wall.

He raises his eyebrows as Dean approaches. “Sam finished his report already?”

Dean rolls his eyes as he claps Cas’ shoulder amicably by way of greeting. “I know. He’s crazy.”

Cas doesn't speak yet, waiting to see if Dean needs help finding anything, because so far, he’s only come to return Sam’s books when he needs to check out another. But instead, Dean nods toward the cart.

“What’re you doing?”

“Alphabetizing, sorting.” Cas ensures none of the other librarians are within earshot and lowers his voice. “To be honest, I’ve been taking my time with it. It’s been a slow day, so dragging it out gives me something to do, at least.”

“Oh, I know those days.” Dean licks his lips, hesitates. “Is it okay if I hang here for a while?”

Cas says “Sure” a little too quickly, with way too much enthusiasm, but he couldn’t care less because Dean beams at him, and he knows it’s the biggest fucking cliché, but dear God, the man’s _smile_. Cas is fairly certain it could probably cure at least seven different illnesses and maybe stop a few world wars in the process, and ugh, Cas has got it _bad_.

Dean snags a stool from a few shelves over, sets it down on the other side of the cart. He drops his bag on the ground unceremoniously and situates himself directly across from Cas, looking some combination of grateful and sheepish.

“Thanks. Sam’s cooking dinner for his girlfriend tonight and wanted me out of the house.”

Ah, sexiled, then. Honestly, Cas doesn’t really care what Dean’s reason for being here is, but he all the same, he hears himself ask, “Nowhere else to be?”

Dean pauses before he replies, stretching out one of his legs, and Cas keeps his own eyes on the books in front of him while Dean filters through his thoughts.

After a heartbeat, Dean replies simply, slowly, “There are other places I could’ve gone, but I wanted to be here.”

Cas is surprised, abandoning the books in favor of glancing up and Dean’s expression is open, wide open. It’s funny, because the interaction is fairly basic, but this is important, this is perfect—Dean is testing the waters, feeling his way around, trying to learn Cas with his eyes and hushed words.

“I’m glad you did,” Cas assures him, all sincerity, and he feels exposed, too. Maybe, though, that isn’t such a bad thing.

Dean exhales, and Cas feels an overwhelming rush of affection. He doesn’t concern himself with trying to suppress it.

“Want help with that?” Dean gestures to the books in front of them, and adds, “I promise I’ll go really slow.”

“Snail’s pace, man. Seriously. Yeah, if you want to. Alphabetical order.”

Dean seems more at ease with a something keeping his hands busy, however menial the task may be. They sit in silence for long minutes, and Cas is surprised to find that it isn’t awkward. It’s the sort of comfortable silence friends can share, when there isn’t an urgent need to fill the space with incessant and meaningless chatter.

Cas’ gaze eventually strays over to Dean’s hands, and he notices a grease smear across the knuckle of his thumb. They’ve already let their composure slip, just a fraction, but it's enough that Cas decides this is as good a time as any to ask some of the more personal questions he’s bitten back so many times.

“When did you start working at the garage?”

If the question startles Dean, he doesn’t show it.

“Sixteen.”

“Was it something you always wanted to do?”

Dean wavers, runs his pointer finger along the grain of the wood in front of him.

“I mean, I like working with cars and bikes. I always have. But it was more out of necessity than anything else.”

Cas tilts his head, curious but not wanting to push. Dean must see the gesture from the corner of his eye, but he keeps his head down as he explains, “That’s when Dad left me and Sammy.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say to that, because “sorry” seems both wholly inadequate and unproductive. Perhaps startled by Cas’ silence, Dean does look up now, and when he realizes that Cas is struggling, he smiles gently, reassuringly.

“It’s fine. We’ve managed.”

Cas can’t help but think that Dean’s definition of “fine” is probably in line with being “fine” while your leg is being gnawed off by a shark.

Dean picks up a picture book, flipping through it absently. “I dropped out of high school to work, so that Sam could focus on getting an education. It was easy enough to fake Dad’s signature for school forms and all that stuff, and no one really checked up on us.”

“So, it’s just you and Sam?”

Dean nods. “Yeah. Mom died when we were little, and we don’t have much of an extended family.”

Cas rearranges the J section, trying to process all of it. He can’t imagine how brave Dean had to be to raise Sam on his own. At age sixteen, no less.

Dean reaches over to hand a book to Cas, and their hands brush. He catches Cas’ eye briefly, letting the contact linger before he pulls back. Dean chooses that moment to shed his leather jacket (all the while, Cas is still reminding himself to breathe after briefly touching Dean’s hand, because he’s a fucking grown man with a school girl crush). As Dean lets his jacket fall to the floor next to his bag, Cas can’t help but stare at his arms—the muscles that are prominent without being bulky, the tattoos crawling up under his shirt.

Dean’s eyes are glued to his face, and Cas belatedly realizes he’s probably gaping. Before Cas can get too red-faced, Dean shifts the conversation away from himself.

“Don’t let me be the one to do all the talking, here. What about you? How did you end up here?”

“Oh. Um.” Cas lifts one shoulder in a half shrug, his gaze flitting around the library. “I wanted to be a teacher—a professor, actually—but all I could afford was community college. When I got out, I decided to work for as long as it takes to be able to continue school. I’m getting close, I think. I don’t want to take out loans, so I’ve been saving for a while now.”

Dean doesn’t speak until Cas meets his eyes, and his voice is quiet, almost reverent when he says, “You’ll be a fantastic teacher, Castiel.”

Cas’ head spins, and if he does nothing for the rest of the afternoon but memorize the flecks of gold in Dean’s jade eyes, he could go to bed completely satisfied. His mumbled “Thank you” sounds as flustered as he feels, but Dean’s answering smile is so sweet that his self-consciousness melts away.

After that, they spend the next hour swapping stories, anecdotes about when they were kids, horror stories from their teen years. Dean tells Cas about when some dumbass fifth grader pantsed Sam on the elementary school playground, and Dean clocked him so hard the kid got a broken nose and a black eye to match. Dean was suspended for two weeks, and he wasn’t the least bit ashamed. Cas talks about when he had his tonsils removed, how he milked it for all it was worth and stubbornly insisted on a diet comprised solely of frozen yogurt for at least a month afterwards. Dean flushes as he recalls the night his dad came to pick him up from the middle school dance. John found Dean underneath the bleachers, making out with hot Kat from his math class, and Dean reenacts it, how his father dragged him out with a vice grip on his elbow, yelling at him all through the middle school gymnasium, and how Kat wouldn’t so much as look at him after. Cas recalls the time he got a hard on during a French presentation, his teacher’s horrified expression and the girls giggling at him all through lunch. The very next day, they’d learned the word for happiness—“bonheur,” which is pronounced like “boner” with a French accent—and the kids in his class mocked him ruthlessly, shouting “Cassie, isn’t that your favorite word in the whole French language?” “Yeah, Cas sure is happy these days!” That story makes the two of them laugh until they’re folded over, clutching their stomachs. Several library patrons glare daggers until Cas finally tries to shush Dean, but neither of them can take it seriously, and every time they lock eyes it starts up again.

They finally pull themselves together, Dean wiping tears from the corners of his eyes and standing to stretch. The cart has basically been sorted—Cas is dragging out W through Z for as long as he can, knowing he’s going to have to find something else to do soon—but all he wants is to stay hidden behind the shelves with Dean, laughing until they cry.

Dean stoops to pick up his bag and put his jacket back on (much to Cas’ chagrin), and Cas feels keenly the jolt of disappointment. He tries not to let it bleed into his voice as he asks, “Heading home?”

“Nah, not yet. I’m just gonna run across the street and get some iced coffee. Do you want anything?”

Cas gives Dean a wistful look. “I could definitely use it right about now, but we’re not allowed to have any food or drinks near the books. I’d get in trouble.”

Dean scans the area around them before stepping in right next to Cas and stage-whispering, “Are there security cameras?”

Cas is having trouble thinking straight, with Dean standing so close to him. He can see the freckles scattered on his nose and cheeks, and Jesus help him, the man even has freckles on his eyelids. Is there such thing as a freckle fetish? Because Cas is pretty positive that as of right now, he has one.

“N—no. Well, yes, but none pointed at where we are.”

Dean grins triumphantly. “What do you want?”

Cas glances toward the front door and back at Dean, uncertain. “How are you going to sneak it in?”

The corner of Dean’s mouth pulls up in a coy smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got my methods. I won’t get myself kicked out, and I won’t get you fired.”

And, because he is insane, Cas trusts Dean. Cas, the man who is always at least fifteen minutes early for his shift, who hasn’t called out sick in three years straight, who follows every single rule to a T, trusts Dean to deliver him iced coffee. He must be losing his mind.

As if it's a drug deal rather than a coffee run, Cas whispers, “Just black, no sugar, dash of cream. Any size is fine.” He starts digging around in his pockets for money when Dean puts his hand on Cas’ forearm, stopping him.

“Hey. My treat.”

And then he spins on the heel of his black leather boot and saunters out, nodding at Kara as he goes. If Cas stares at Dean’s ass until he disappears from view, it isn’t his fault. Dean’s skinny jeans leave very little to the imagination.

 

 

Sure enough, Dean breezes back in twenty minutes later, looking aggravated. When Kara raises her eyebrows and says, “Back so soon?”, Dean huffs.

“My stupid kid brother forgot to tell me about one more book he needs. Ugh. Siblings, am I right?”

Kara chuckles and agrees with him, and Dean looks cross right up until he rounds the corner and is out of sight. Then, he winks (actually fucking _winks_ ) at Cas, and that’s when Cas realizes that Dean put the iced coffees in his bag.

Dean makes a show of asking, “Hey Castiel, can you help me find this one too?”

Cas panics a bit, whispers “Shhh!” but there isn’t any venom in it, he’s smiling back at Dean as he pulls a cup of coffee and a straw out of his bag. He managed to get the coffee to cream ratio exactly right, and Cas considers proposing on the spot. 

Cas lowers his voice, aware that he’s still grinning like a fool as he tucks the coffee on the bottom shelf of the book cart, out of sight. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean gives Cas’ arm a playful punch as he says, “See? Told ya it’d be fine.”

Cas nods zealously, then remembers. “Oh! I need to get you another book to take home to Sam. Don’t want to blow your cover. Is another biography okay?”

He stands and scours the lower half of the shelf for someone who was at a lawyer, at least at some point. He settles on Sonia Sotomayor’s autobiography, _My Beloved World_. Cas secretly hopes Sam may actually read it, ‘cause it’s one of his personal favorites, and then they could talk about it if they ever meet.

He hands the book to Dean and elbows him, still feeling giddy from the rush of sneaking coffee in (because that’s how pathetic he is, sneaking a non-alcoholic beverage into work is his definition of rebellion, and fuck he needs to get out more) and from Dean’s little touches that have accumulated over the afternoon.

“Will Sam be suspicious if you come home with a book he didn’t ask for?”

“Honestly?” Dean’s tone doesn’t shift, he doesn’t miss a beat, so Cas is completely unprepared for his response.

“I think he’s been suspicious since I volunteered to start picking up his books for him. By the third time I offered, he figured out that I had ulterior motives. He thinks there’s someone here motivating me to come back all the time.”

… _Oh_.

Cas’ breath hitches in his throat and his stomach churns. Not that it came out of left field after an entire afternoon of hardcore flirting, but in this moment, there was zero warning. Besides the fact that Dean’s neck is flushed pink—even beneath the dragon tattoo, starting at its fiery tongue and licking its way down under his shirt—he seems fairly calm, his intonation the same as it has been all afternoon, and that’s just not fair.

Another moment passes before Cas swallows, clears his throat, finds words.

“Is Sam right? Is there someone here who keeps you coming back?”

Dean lifts his bag from the floor, hauling the strap over his shoulder and his eyes never stray from Cas’ face.

“Yeah. Real cute librarian. Actually, I sorta spent the afternoon with him. But, y’know,” he rubs the back of his neck, “I was really hoping that maybe I could see him for coffee or a drink or something, somewhere where he doesn’t have to organize books.”

Cas opens his mouth and closes it again, because really, in what universe does a man like Dean ask out someone like him? Not that he’s complaining, not by a long shot, but it takes him a second to realize that his months of fantasies are actually plausible, that Dean may have even a shadow of those same feelings.

When Cas’ reply isn’t immediately forthcoming, Dean hastens to add, “Not that there’s anything wrong with organizing books! I told you, I am completely fascinated by—“

And see, here’s the thing.

Cas is shy and quiet when he doesn’t know someone well. He’s got a reputation for being the librarian who doesn’t talk all that much, who keeps to himself and reads too much and avoids the checkout counter. But he’s spent the past hour and a half letting his guard down for Dean, gazing longingly at the bow of his upper lip and the hinge of his jaw, and yeah, this is something he can definitely get on board with.

He cuts Dean off by lurching forward and kissing him, one hand coming to the back of Dean’s neck and one to his cheek, angling him downward. It’s a desperate press of lips, mouths closed but far from chaste, and Dean chases Cas when he pulls back. He looks stunned, dazed, and Cas thinks he probably looks about the same, even if the kiss was far, far too brief.

Of course, Cas dosen’t step away immediately, because now that he’s got his hands on Dean, he wants to make his composure fray at the edges, just a little bit. Feather light, Cas traces his fingers down Dean’s throat, stopping to follow the dragon’s curved spine, and Dean’s eyes fall closed. He moans, a low broken sound that no one else would hear, but Cas feels it beneath his palms, feels it vibrate through his bones. It’s a sound that goes straight to Cas’ cock, and he can only imagine the noises Dean makes when he’s in the heat of things, in the midst of the delicious sort of torture that keeps him on a razor’s edge, whole body taut with anticipation—

Calling upon every ounce of his self-control, Cas wrenches himself away.

“When were you thinking?”

Dean blinks, trying to recall what they had been discussing, and it’s _too damn adorable_ to watch his eyes light up at Cas’ words.

“Tomorrow?”

Cas curses. “I can’t.” He sees Dean’s face fall and he steps forward again, grabbing Dean’s wrist lightly, brushing his thumb across his pulse, back and forth.

“No, I really can’t. I want to, but I agreed to close tomorrow night, which means I’m basically here for forever.”

“Oh.” Dean looks less crestfallen, anchored by Cas’ touch. “Well, maybe I can swing by?”

Dean’s hopeful persistence burns like whiskey through Cas’ chest, warmth that seeps into his bones, and it’s too soon for that sort of feeling, but he forgets every reason why he should care.

He reluctantly lets go of Dean’s wrist. “Yeah. The library closes at nine. I should be out by ten.”

“Cool. I’ll be there.”

Dean grins and turns to walk away, but Cas reaches for him, grabbing at his jacket with a murmured “Wait, Dean.” Cas spins him back around, running his fingers through Dean’s hair and hauling him down, pressing their mouths together with bruising force. Dean is caught off guard, takes a second to catch on, but when Cas nips at his bottom lip, Dean clutches at Cas, threading his fingers into Cas’ belt loops and yanking him forward. It’s not long before they’re breathless—foreheads pressed together, mouths open, panting.

“It’s going to be a long day tomorrow,” Dean says, and Cas feels the shape of every word against Dean’s mouth, his fist tightening in black leather because Dean’s right, and Cas has no idea how he’ll manage.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was finishing this chapter, my sister said, "I don't know how you can be so straight-faced right now." Pause. "When what you're writing is SO gay." 
> 
> And on that note

As far as Dean’s concerned, his behavior today is the same as every other damn day. It’s not like he’s suddenly reciting sonnets or skipping around the house or any of that shit. He even managed to catch himself before he started whistling as he was making coffee, because the sound of Sammy’s know-it-all voice in his head shut him right up (“ _You only whistle after you get laid, Dean_ ”).

Apparently, though, his asshole genius baby brother can see right through him, whether he whistles or not.

“Okay, it’s been months now. Who is it, Dean?”

Sam is looking over his cereal at Dean, eyebrows raised. Dean pointedly takes a long sip of his coffee and ignores the way it burns his throat on the way down. “Who?”

“Whoever the hell is at the library that you keep going back for. Have you found the balls yet to ask ‘em on a date?”

Sam’s goading him, teasing him and trying to get Dean to take the bait, but underneath his smug grin, Dean recognizes the sincerity in his brother’s question, the genuine curiosity.

He considers playing clueless, but he knows Sam won’t buy it, and he’ll probably give him more shit for trying to cover it up. Really, he’s surprised Sam’s gone this long without pestering him. It’s been roughly three months since he started going to the library to get books for Sam, who figured it out almost immediately; it was way too out of character for Dean to 1) go to a library, and 2) _willingly_ offer to go out of his way to help Sam. Multiple times per week. Dean sighs, resigned.

“For your information, I did.”

Sam drops the act, his eyes lighting up, and for a moment, Dean could swear the kid’s back to being six again and Dean’s showing him how to wax Dad’s bike. He can’t decide if it’s really fucking annoying or a bit cute.

“Wait, you did? You’re gonna go on a date?”

Sam stands up to wash his bowl in the sink, long limbs and barely contained enthusiasm, and Dean huffs.

“Yeah, man, keep up.”

Sam rolls his eyes at Dean over his shoulder as he pumps soap onto the sponge. “When?”

“Well, that’s a bit more complicated.”

Sam turns to look at Dean and makes a face, incredulous.

“Dean. I am going to be a lawyer. ‘Complicated’ is the most meaningless, empty excuse you could possibly—”

“Okay, okay! I don’t need a vocab lesson!” Lord knows, Dean’s heard enough legal jargon to last him an entire lifetime, maybe three or four, and Sam’s not even a lawyer yet.

“It’s not really a date, because he’s working, but I am seeing him tonight.”

At that, Sam actually fucking _beams_.

Dean stands up, putting his coffee cup in the sink alongside Sam’s bowl, leaving it for Sam to wash. He knows the kid’s real stoked because where he’d normally receive a lecture about “duel responsibility” and “I washed the dishes yesterday, Dean”, Sam just starts scrubbing that, too.

“Can I know his name at least?”

Dean snorts. “If I tell you his name, I’m worried that you’ll start sending out ‘Save the Date’ cards, printed on fuckin’ doilies or something.”

Dean’s halfway out the kitchen door when he hears Sam say quietly, “Will I get to meet him at some point?”

 _Ugh_. Little brothers.

“Yeah, dude. You will,” he calls over his shoulder, and he doesn’t have to look back to see Sam pump his fist in the air.

xXxXx

The rest of Dean’s day seems to drag on and on. At the shop, he’s fixing up a 1975 Harley-Davidson 220. It’s a real beauty, almost pristine condition. The son of the man who bought it just wants to make sure it’s still functioning. It’s something that would ordinarily keep Dean entertained. Today, though, he barely pays attention. He checks the brake pedal rod, ensures the footrest mount clevis is properly held in place. The movement of his hands is automatic, sweeping across the expanse of the bike, searching for anything out of place. He’s on autopilot.

He thinks about his interaction with his brother. Admittedly, Sam’s got a reason to be excited. Sam’s had a girlfriend for three years, a girl he met in undergrad, and it’s only a matter of time before they tie the knot. (Sammy even dragged Dean with him to look at rings last week. Dean grumbled about it the whole day and gave Sam all sorts of shit for knowing the difference between a “diamond cut” and a “princess cut.” Secretly, though, he’s happy for his gargantuan baby brother. He likes Jess. She keeps Sam grounded. Dean’s relieved that Sam’s found peace, especially given how rough their childhoods had been after dad ditched.)

He knows Sam is holding off on proposing because he feels bad for Dean, and doesn’t want to get married before his older brother finds someone. Which, of course, is twelve shades of ridiculous, but these are the things Sam concerns himself with.

He also knows Sam’s just excited to see him dating at all. The last person Dean had been with seriously was more than five years ago, and when Lisa asked Dean to move to Atlanta with her, Dean refused because he wasn’t leaving Sammy. End of relationship.

Sam’s encouraged Dean to go on dates throughout the last five years—hell, he even set his big brother up a couple times—but Dean hasn’t really been interested. Sure, it’s nice to talk to someone over a good meal, and if he gets to have sex, it’s a bonus. Truth be told, though, relationships are a lot of time and effort, and Dean hasn’t really come across anyone who would make that effort worthwhile.

He’s pulled from his thoughts when he feels the sting of a rag being whipped against his ass.

“It’s quittin’ time, kid. You’ve been done with that Harley for hours. Get outta here,” Bobby orders, and Dean mock salutes, dodges Bobby’s rag again.

xXxXx

He takes longer in the shower than normal. He doesn’t normally mind that his skin is always slick with grease and gasoline, but for once, he’d prefer not to smell like a walking gas station.

Somewhere in between rinsing, lathering, and repeating, Dean feels the jitters start to set in, blossoming low in his gut. It’s been a really long fucking time since he’s been nervous before a date.

And, Jesus, this isn’t even a date.

xXxXx

The library is only partially lit when Dean pulls his motorcycle onto the curb. He cups his hand over his eyes to block the glare from the streetlights, and peers inside. Cas is nowhere in sight. He raps his knuckles against the glass window, shoves his hands into his pockets and waits.

Cas appears and unlocks the door, opening it to let Dean inside.

Dean says, “Hey,” as he steps into the library, then he hesitates, not sure how he’s supposed to greet Cas. Do they hug? Is Dean allowed to kiss Cas hello?

Cas, however, does not hesitate at all. He reaches behind Dean to flick the lock again, and before Dean knows what’s happening, his back is hitting the glass door. Cas skims his lips along Dean’s throat, his breath ghosting over Dean’s skin. Dean tips his head back to bare his neck.

Cas moves upward achingly slowly, his lips gliding over the hinge of Dean’s jaw, not quite touching.

It’s then that Dean realizes Cas hasn’t said anything, and he chuckles breathlessly, “Glad to see you too, Cas.”

Cas places both his hands on Dean’s shoulders, pulling away to look into Dean’s eyes. Dean actually shudders. The half light of the library creates shadows on Cas’ face, and he looks like a goddamn predator, like he’s feral and _hungry_. Dean is already half hard, had been for the entire ride to the library, and fuck, Cas has shifted Dean’s arousal into something just shy of painfully pleasurable in thirty seconds, while barely touching him. That’s all kinds of unfair.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Cas says, and he sounds like he’s been gargling on sandpaper, his voice gritty and splintered. One hand travels to Dean’s cheek and Cas rubs his thumb at the corner of Dean’s mouth, catching his lower lip. Dean swallows, and Cas’ eyes flit to his throat, then back up again.

Cas moves in again, nipping at Dean’s earlobe as he whispers, “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you?” He sucks on the flesh behind the shell of Dean’s ear, and Dean exhales, shaky.

“ _Cas_.” Dean’s voice is strained, too high and he sounds like he’s begging already, which is kind of pathetic, but Cas hears it for what it is.

Cas drags his lips across Dean’s jaw, down the right side of his neck. He opens his mouth and latches onto Dean’s throat, where his pulse roars beneath Cas’ tongue. Cas sinks his teeth in, enough to leave a mark, enough for arousal to shoot sparks from the base of Dean’s scalp down his spine, pooling low in his belly. He curses, threading his fingers through Cas’ hair and holding on. Cas flicks his tongue, soothing the sting, and Dean whimpers, imagining the mark that will appear tomorrow.

Cas lets go, blows lightly at the patch of skin he’s just claimed, and Dean tugs on Cas’ hair, pulling him up so they’re face to face. Cas presses his forehead against Dean’s with a small smile. He plays with the hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck as he speaks, and they’re sharing breath, noses touching.

“I want to ravish you, Dean. I want to drop to my knees and suck your cock until you come apart, until you’re shaking with it.”

When Cas pauses, Dean hears a breathy whine. It takes five seconds for him to realize that the noise came from him. Okay, _totally_ not his fault if Cas insists on talking dirty to him. It would also not be his fault if he came in his pants like a teenager, because holy _shit_.

“At the moment, though,” Cas continues, “we are within view of the surveillance cameras.”

(…The thought of there being a tape of said ravishing should not turn Dean on like it does, it just shouldn’t.)

“Besides,” Cas adds, “I’m not quite done checking in books.” He pauses. “How about you help me out, hm? We should finish in no time at all.”

There’s a mischievous glint in Cas’ eyes, and Dean knows his word choice was intentional just based on the way he said “help me out” and “finish,” enunciating slowly, rolling them around in his mouth like hard candy.

Without waiting for Dean’s response, Cas turns and saunters behind the front desk, sitting on a stool and motioning for Dean to come over and join him. Dean, who’s still incredibly hard and completely dumbfounded by this new side of Cas, hobbles over slowly, taking a seat on the stool in front of a second computer. Cas reaches into the book return and pulls out a stack of books, placing them beside Dean’s keyboard.

“All you have to do is scan the barcode on the inside of the back cover. The system will let you know if any of the books are late, and if it prompts you asking whether to email the patron about the late fee, say yes.”

Dean nods, not quite trusting his voice yet, and for a few minutes, only the beeping of the scanner breaks the silence.

The absurdity of the situation hits Dean when he’s nearly done with his books, and he laughs to himself.

Cas shoots him a sideways glance. “What’s so funny?”

Dean scans the book with one hand, and with the other, he grinds the heel of his palm into his groin, meeting Cas’ eyes boldly, taking pleasure in watching how they widen.

“You, man. I had no idea, underneath all this…” He gestures absently to where Cas sits. “I had no clue. I would’ve made a move months ago.”

Cas scans another book, and Dean’s shocked to see the pink that spreads across Cas’ cheekbones. How is it that Cas can go from nearly making Dean come with his voice alone, to blushing when Dean calls him on it?

It doesn’t stop Cas from meeting Dean’s gaze evenly, though, and he replies sincerely, “I don’t really date much. I know what qualities I like in a person, I know what I want.” He shrugs. “If someone shows any sign of reciprocating my feelings, I dive in, feet first.” He scans the last book in his stack, wedging the book onto the cart. He quirks the corner of his mouth.

“I wasn’t kidding, Dean. I’ve wanted you for months. I mean, I _want_ you.” Cas’ eyes flick pointedly down, and he takes his time meeting Dean’s eyes again, his gaze wandering up, lingering on his chest, his shoulders, his neck. Even fully clothed, Dean feels naked under Cas’ scrutiny, but Cas appears to like what he sees.

His smirk softens into something tender around the edges.

“But also, I want _you_.”

Cas’ words are quiet, and he looks apprehensive as soon as he says them—probably afraid he said too much. And yeah, maybe it’s a bit heavy for 9:15 on a week night, sitting in a dark library. But rather than fear gripping his chest, Dean feels the words roll through his body like honey, all sugar and viscous and slow, buzzing in his veins.

He holds onto the sensation as he scans his final book, places it on the cart, and reaches over to interlace their fingers, bumping their knees together.

Dean Winchester was never one for words, so “Me too,” is about all he can manage. But Cas must recognize it for what it is, because his shyness gives way to a full grin, his eyes crinkling, and he squeezes their hands. Dean knows he must have an idiotic smile on his own face, but considering he’s been sporting a boner for the past fifteen minutes (from the moment he walked through the door!), he figures a goofy grin is probably the least embarrassing thing he’s done so far.

“Come on.” Cas tugs, standing, and Dean trails behind him as Cas leads them through the shelves. He moves with urgency, and Dean wants to ask where they’re going, but before he can even summon the words, Cas stops short, causing Dean to nearly crash into him. Glancing around them, Cas nods, seemingly to himself, then turns to face Dean.

Cas, Dean discovers, likes manhandling. He slides one hand up to the back of Dean’s skull, places his other palm on the center of his chest, and shoves him against the shelf. As it turns out, Dean must _really_ like Cas’ manhandling, too, because he just goes with it as his back hits the wood. Cas’ hand on Dean’s head cushions what could have otherwise been a nasty collision, Dean thinks briefly, and it’s the last coherent thought he has for a while, because Cas surges forward and kisses Dean fiercely, like he’s got something to prove.

Through the haze that descends around him, Dean realizes that Cas was holding back yesterday. The kiss immediately becomes slack-jawed and filthy, Cas’ tongue tracing Dean’s molars, mapping his palate. He sucks Dean’s tongue into his own mouth so hard that Dean’s head spins, he feels like the air is being punched from his lungs. He bucks up against Cas mindlessly, seeking friction. He feels Cas smile into the kiss, so he winds his arms around Cas’ waist and pulls him in, pressing them flush together. The heat radiating from Cas’ groin is enough to make him dizzy, the fog of lust even thicker.

Cas thrusts against him in a counter rhythm to his tongue, his hips grinding small circles and Dean moans, shameless and too far gone to care. The noise seems to break through Cas’ motions, and he pulls back enough to breathe.

“I meant what I said before, Dean,” Cas drawls, and sucks on Dean’s bottom lip. Dean can’t even remember what his own name is, let alone what Cas said twenty minutes ago, but when one of Cas’ hands worms between their bodies and he begins tugging at Dean’s belt, he recalls something about Cas’ mouth and his dick. His heart beats impossibly faster, threatening to hammer right through his ribcage. Cas must feel Dean’s pulse increase, because he nips at the mark he made on Dean’s neck earlier with a chuckle that Dean can feel more than hear, the vibration resonating through his whole body.

“Would you like that, Dean? Would you like my mouth on your cock?” Cas asks the question as though he’s asking about whether Dean would like a hamburger or hot dog, and Dean’s already pretty much incapable of words, so he just gasps, and Cas gets the message.

He drops to his knees, making quick work of Dean’s belt and unfastening the button of Dean’s jeans. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to Dean’s hip as he pulls the zipper down. Cas shimmies the tight denim down while he mouths across the waistband of Dean’s briefs. He slips a thumb under the elastic, dragging his nail through the thatch of curls there, and Dean can’t suppress the way his hips cant into Cas’s hands. Cas grins up at him, cat that caught the canary.

“I’ve got you, Dean,” he murmurs into Dean’s hipbone, and now he pulls Dean’s pants all the way to his knees, and carefully peels his briefs down. Dean’s dick curves up toward his belly, slick and flushed dark. Cas leans forward and presses a kiss to the base. Dean’s legs are already trembling, and he has to reach down, plant one hand on Cas’ shoulder and one at the back of his head just to ground himself.

Cas sits back on his heels, commands, “Dean, look at me.”

Dean opens his eyes (he didn’t even realize they were half closed), looks down, and Cas is quite a sight like this, so much better than every fantasy he’d formulated—his hair’s sticking up, his lips kiss-bitten and stained red. He looks up at Dean through his lashes, and his eyes are diluted with lust, murky blue like the ocean churned up before a hurricane.

When Cas is satisfied that Dean is watching, he takes Dean’s cock into his mouth. He licks across the slit, presses his tongue against sensitive spot on the underside of the head.

“Holy fuck,” Dean breathes, and he’s glad he’s already clutching at Cas because there’s a very real possibility that his knees are going to give out. Cas supports him, though, one hand at his waist and the other pressing against his thigh.

A wounded sound escapes from the back of Dean’s throat as Cas descends, hollowing out his cheeks and sucking like he wants nothing else. He does something wicked with his tongue, and as he pulls back, he draws Dean’s cock along the ridged roof of his mouth.

Dean’s already close, has been from the moment Cas pinned him to the front door, and he takes deep shuddering breaths, trying to edge himself back from the precipice and make this last. It’s no good, though, because Cas chooses that moment to form a tight fist at the base of Dean’s cock and jack Dean with a slight flick of his wrist, all the while tilting his head in the opposite direction.

Cas must sense that Dean’s trying to regain control of his body. He pulls off with an obscene noise, licks his lips for good measure. Dean relinquishes his hold on Cas’ shoulder in favor of tracing his lips with the pads of his fingers. He feels Cas’ next words, shaping like braille beneath his hands.

“Let go, Dean.” It’s thrilling to hear Cas say his name like this. His voice is jagged, broken, and somehow there’s still authority there.

Dean digs his fingers into Cas’ scalp. In turn, Cas sinks his teeth into the meat of Dean’s thigh and presses a thumb to the skin behind Dean’s balls. Dean cries out weakly. It feels like Cas has unspooled him, unraveling him from the inside out, tangled yarn in a heap on the cheap carpet in front of Cas’ knees.

“That’s right. I want to watch you come undone just like this, just for me.”

Cas doesn’t wait for Dean to indicate that he’ll do as he says. He just resumes, and Dean feels the head of his cock against the slick inside of Cas’ cheek. It takes conscious effort to keep himself from thrusting into Cas’ mouth, and he presses his bare ass back against the wood of the bookshelf in a weak attempt to hold still. But Cas feels the urge, recognizes it, and he lightly taps at Dean’s leg with his finger. When Dean glances down, Cas nods, giving permission. _Christ_.

Cas holds his head still, and Dean begins to shallowly thrust into his mouth. It’s messy, and it’s divine—a whole bunch of things that Dean doesn’t even have words for—and the fact that Cas just _lets him_ is a turn-on on a whole new level. He looks down, has to, and Cas is the one who closes his eyes, like it’s too much. Dean pauses, but Cas opens his eyes enough to glare up, and he pinches the skin at Dean’s hip, eliciting a squirm. Cas hums around Dean’s cock, and that’s it, any semblance of composure Dean had left has fled.

He remembers Cas’ last words, and he lets himself go. He fucks into Cas’ mouth, and Cas’ hand on his hip is probably the only thing keeping him vertical. At first, he tries not to go too deep, but Cas moves his head the slightest bit forward. Dean feels Cas swallow around him, feels when he hits the back of Cas’ throat. He can’t help but moan and do it again, and again. When Dean opens his eyes and looks down, the sight of Cas’ spit-shiny lips wrapped around his dick is almost enough to push him over the edge.

But that’s the moment that Cas clamps down, holds Dean still, and he doesn’t even have time to voice frustration before Cas goes to fucking town, sucking determinedly on the head. With his free hand, Cas palms Dean’s ass, squeezing hard, and the final straw is Cas scraping his teeth, ever so gently, along the underside of Dean’s cock.

Dean tightens his fist in Cas’ hair and tries to pull back, with a rushed, “Cas, I’m gonna—”

But Cas just hums and takes Dean deeper, and that’s fucking _it_ , that’s all Dean can take. Honestly, he’s surprised he lasted this long.

Dean comes hard, an orgasm stripped from his bone marrow, yanked from something raw and aching inside of him. Dean can feel Cas’ throat contracting as he swallows, takes all of it in. When Dean’s done, Cas just pulls off, nuzzles at Dean’s thigh and belly. Dean doesn’t know how long he takes to come down, but when he opens his eyes, Cas is looking up at him patiently, pressing lush kisses below Dean’s belly button, and Dean sort of wants to melt all over again.

His legs are seriously jelly by this point, but he summons whatever strength he has left and grabs Cas’ shirt, hauls him up, and crashes their mouths together. Cas’ hands are all over Dean, and he’s making little noises into Dean’s mouth. Dean doesn’t think about finesse or technique when he fumbles with the button of Cas’ pants. He barely has the zipper down before he’s shoving his hand into Cas’ boxers, wrapping his fingers around his cock. Cas just makes this wounded sound, pulling away from the kiss to pant harshly into Dean’s ear.

Next time they do this, Dean decides, they will be on a bed, and Dean will spend more time making sure it’s good for Cas (making sure it’s fan-fucking-tastic, because it’s the least he can do after the orgasm Dean just had). This time, he just wants to get Cas off, jacking him fast and rough.

Dean at least has enough sense left to ask, “This okay?”

He feels Cas nodding against his neck, feels his grip on Dean’s arm tighten. Dean snakes his other hand up beneath Cas’ shirts, and at the same time he nips at Cas’ jaw, he pinches one nipple, then the other, revels in the way Cas’ whole body tenses. Cas is silent when he comes, but Dean pulls back enough to see his face, to see the way his jaw goes slack, his eyes seeking Dean’s. It’s probably the hottest thing Dean’s _ever_ seen. And that says a whole lot.

He slows, guiding Cas through it, and he presses his nose into Cas’ hair while they catch their breath. Minutes pass and Cas lifts his head from where it had come to rest on Dean’s shoulder. His face is flushed with exertion, his smile is loose and easy, and Dean’s first thought is, _I could get used to this_. His second thought what a giant sentimental bastard he’s become (Sam must be rubbing off on him), but the second thought flees when Cas presses their lips together. They kiss languidly for a moment, until Cas pulls back with a chuckle and says, “You should at least go wash off your shirt in the sink, unless you want a really interesting conversation with Sam when you get home tonight.”

Dean cringes and Cas just grins, stepping back to straighten up his clothes and make himself halfway decent. He grabs at Dean’s hand.“C’mere. The bathroom is over this way.”

They walk hand in hand, weaving through the shelves, and when they reach the single stall bathroom, they both clamber inside. They only fling water at each other for two or three minutes (okay, maybe five) before they actually get some water where it needs to be. Cas dabs at Dean’s shirt with a wet paper towel while Dean makes sure he’s gotten all incriminating stains out of Cas’ pants, and it’s effortless, grossly domestic and soothing all at the same time.

When they emerge, Cas disappears to go gather his things from the back room, and Dean strolls contentedly to the front of the library. He wonders if he’ll develop a Pavlovian association with these bookshelves, if he’ll get half-hard at the sight of the library alone. Probably.

He hears the sound of keys and Cas is there, pushing Dean outside and following behind him, taking his time locking the door. Cas turns to face Dean once he’s satisfied that the door is, in fact, locked, and they stare at each other for a moment.

Dean clears his throat and tries to sound cocky. “Eh. Six outta ten. The you in my fantasies did better.”

Cas sees right through it and raises an eyebrow. “So you did fantasize about me, then?” he says, wraps his arms around Dean’s waist to grope Dean’s ass suggestively.

Dean ducks his head to nuzzle at Cas’ neck, embarrassed. “Maybe,” he mutters. Cas just laughs.

“Well, then, we’re even.”

He lifts his head, and Cas is gazing at him earnestly, fondly. Dean lets out a breath, raises a hand to Cas’ neck and caresses his jaw. “I’d like to hear about yours sometime.”

Cas slides his hands below the waistband of Dean’s jeans and pulls him forward, the space between them vanishing and they’re pressed together head to toe.

“Oh, I was planning on showing rather than telling,” Cas says, and there’s a glimmer in his eye, intent in the way he’s grabbing Dean’s ass, and Dean only just stops the moan that threatens to tumble out. He kisses Cas instead, his tongue swiping along Cas’ bottom lip. Cas removes his hands from Dean’s pants, presses his palms to Dean’s cheeks to frame his face tenderly, and this time, Dean doesn’t suppress his little sigh into Cas’ mouth.

They break apart, noses sliding against each other as they breathe.

“Thank you, Cas,” Dean murmurs, hushed and reverent.

Cas kisses him chastely. “Anytime.”

Dean pulls back enough to search Cas’ face, grinning wryly. “I think we need to stop fooling around in the library. What do you think of us going on an actual date?”

Cas shrugs, faking indifference as he reaches into one of his pockets. He takes out a pen and jots his number down on Dean’s wrist. “Yeah, okay,” he says as he clicks the pen once, twice, shoves it back into his pocket. Cas’ eyes give away his smile, even while he’s pretending to be nonchalant.

Dean stares at the jumble of numbers on his skin. He may be getting a new tattoo tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Seuss' new books, Blowjobs in the Bookshelves and its sequel Sex in the Stacks, will be coming soon to a bookstore near you! 
> 
> (shh I'm hilarious)


	4. Chapter 4

_+1-650_  
guess who

 _+1-408_  
Hello, Dean.

 _+1-650_  
how’d ya know

  _+1-408_  
Oh, just an educated guess.

 _+1-650_  
so, are you still down for dinner sometime?

 _+1-408_  
Yes 

 _+1-408_  
But only if dinner includes dessert.

  _+1-650_  
…are you flirting with me

  _+1-650_  
or are you actually just super enthused about chocolate cake or some shit

 _+1-408_  
I wouldn’t mind chocolate, but only if it’s drizzled over your naked body.

   
_+1-650_  
Jesus, Cas, cut straight to the chase, why don’t you

 _+1-408_  
Are you at work?  
 

 _+1-650_  
yeah

 _+1-408_  
Are you hard?  
 

 _+1-650_  
yes, fuck you very much

 _+1-408_  
Oh, I plan on it.  
 

 _+1-650_  
are you around soon

  _+1-650_  
like, tonight

 _+1-408_  
Yes, I’m free tonight.

 _+1-650_  
okay, I’ll be by to pick you up at seven. 

 _+1-650_  
…how do you feel about motorcycles?

 

xXxXx

 

Dean got his motorcycle permit as soon as he could, tested for his license a week after his sixteenth birthday. When Dean pulled into his driveway after his test, he looked up to see Sam with his nose pressed to the glass, before he leapt from the couch and yanked open the front door.

“Did you get it?” he asked, bright-eyed and breathless with excitement for his big brother. Dean had wanted to drag out the suspense, maybe mope around the house for a day or two for added effect, but he took one look at Sam’s face and couldn’t help it, broke into a grin of his own. Sam ran out into the driveway barefoot, and even though he was twelve and almost too cool for physical affection, Sam hurled himself at Dean, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist and clinging on.

Dean ruffled Sam’s hair, hugged him back fiercely. “Are you gonna tell all of your friends that your big bro is the coolest now that he’s got his motorcycle license?”

Sam looked up at Dean, and it reminded Dean of the way Sam used to look at the mall Santas when they were kids; the way he used to look at Dean when Dean became all that he had.

“You were already the coolest, Dean,” Sam told him, like it was perfectly common knowledge. Dean spun Sam around and tickled him relentlessly until the crest of affection had broken and he’d wrangled his emotions back under control. John left them a year before, and in the stress of becoming Sam’s not-legal guardian, they snapped at each other a lot. Truthfully, they were both scared, aching after their father left them, but it some nights, it ended up translating into heated arguments and slammed doors. Sam’s open affection like this, it was almost like when Mom and Dad were still around, and Dean’s heart soared.

He’d already stolen an old helmet for Sam from the garage (Bobby knew, looked the other way, and Dean put in extra hours for the following two weeks without voicing a single complaint), had made sure the bike was equipped with a passenger footrest, and soon they were speeding down the Bayshore Freeway in Palo Alto, Sam whooping in Dean’s ear. If there were Pearly Gates and Dean got to relive snippets of his life, that day would go down as one of the top five.

xXxXx

 It’s been an eternity since Dean went out to an actual, honest-to-God restaurant. The last time he can remember was when Sam graduated high school. Dean tried to take Sam out somewhere half decent when Sam received word that he got into Stanford Law, but Sam insisted that they order in and watch Apocalypse Now, like they did when they were little. ‘Cause he’s a sap like that.

So, after Dean goes to the bathroom at the garage and jacks off (there are six hours left of his work day and he’s not going to make it if he’s half hard the whole time, he just _won’t_ ), he calls Sam. He knows Sam’s schedule, knows he’s in class, but he calls anyway. They’d agreed upon The Phone Rule years ago, when Sam got his first flip phone: if Dean called Sam once and left a voicemail, it could wait. If he called twice in a row, it was urgent enough to justify interrupting whatever Sam was doing. 

(In theory, The Rule went the other way, too, if Sam called him. But, if Dean was honest with himself, he never let his phone go to voicemail if it was Sammy calling. Even when it’s silly things, like _Dean, can you please come with me to the jewelry store when you get out? I have to get Jess a present for our anniversary_ or _Dean, the pipes are making really weird noises and I have no idea what the hell’s going on, could you please just come look_. Bobby knows about the Winchester boys, so if Dean holds up his phone and jogs by with a hurried, “Gotta take this,” Bobby just grumbles something about “Hurry up” or “Get me a coffee while you’re out”, but he always lets Dean go.)

Sam picks up on the third ring of the second call, and he keeps his voice down; he’s probably in the hallway, just outside his classroom, with the phone pressed close to his mouth. 

“What is it?” he hisses. Dean can’t decide if Sam sounds more aggravated or worried, and he knows it’s a big deal for Sam to leave a lecture, so he doesn’t beat around the bush.

“Cas and I are going out to dinner tonight, and I have no fuckin’ clue where to take him. I don’t think I know any restaurants in a hundred miles that aren’t diner food. I’m at work, I can’t look up Yelp reviews or whatever.” 

He shouldn’t be surprised when Sam’s tone switches from annoyed to amused. Dean can _feel_ the bitch face radiating through the phone.

“My class gets out in an hour. I’ll text you a list of places by two.” He pauses. “Please tell me you’re going to shower before you go to a nice restaurant.”

Dean mumbles some choice expletives and hangs up, knowing Bobby is going to notice his absence soon, if he hasn’t already. It’s promptly 2:06 when Sam texts him a lengthy list with various types of cuisine. Dean picks one that isn’t far, some French place, and tells Sam to call and make a reservation for him.

Objectively, Sam owes him this. Dean’s lost track of how many favors he’s done for Sam—between jewelry shopping, picking up flowers or whatever the hell suits Sam’s romantic whim (only if Dean’s on his way home anyway. If he’s already kicked back with a beer, forget it, Sam’s on his own), and on one choice occasion, picking up Jess’ favorite soup and popsicles and swinging them by her apartment, because Sam refused to leave her side ( _thanks for the separation anxiety, Dad_ ). Really, looking up a list of restaurants and making a reservation is pretty mild, compared to the list of Shit Dean Has Done In The Name Of Getting His Baby Brother Laid.

Still, he feels stupidly grateful. He makes it two more hours at work before he gives in to the urge and texts Sam.

 

 _+1-650_  
thanks for your help, man.

 _+1-650_  
I’m sorry, is that the sound of gratitude I hear?

 _+1-650_  
fuck you sam

 _+1-650_  
I love you too, Dean.   
[followed by several rows of kissy emojis]

 

xXxXx

 

Cas, as it turns out, lives in East Palo Alto, but Dean is somewhat familiar with Fordham Street and is able to find Cas’ place without too much of a problem. When he pulls up outside, Cas is out the door before Dean can even cut the engine. 

Cas whistles low, circling Dean’s bike with his arms crossed, taking her in.

“Year?”

“1966,” Dean answers, and pride swells in his chest. Typically, the guys at the garage are the only people who give a damn about how cool Dean’s bike is. Now, as Cas examines the Harley, Dean recognizes respect in his expression.

Shit, he’s got it bad.

Finally, Cas’ eyes land on him, and he grins. Dean feels the answering smile on his face, hands him a helmet and jerks his thumb toward the leather cushion behind him.

“Hop on.”

Cas slings one leg over and settles in, his chest pressed to Dean’s back. Dean waits until he hears the click to signify Cas’ helmet is secure, waits until Cas’ arms circle Dean’s waist. Then, he kicks off, navigating through the backroads until he reaches University Ave—from there, it’s a straight ride down.

Cas’ hands are inside Dean’s leather jacket. His left hand is situated near Dean’s right hip, absently stroking back and forth. Dean’s wearing a button down for once in his life, with slacks and even a goddamn tie. (He owns two, only wears them for weddings or funerals. Sam had inherited all of Dad’s, so Dean rifled through Sam’s drawer until he found one that didn’t totally clash with the navy shirt he was wearing. Sam only snickered a little bit when Dean came downstairs.)

Cas’ other hand is on the left side of Dean’s ribcage, right above his heart. Dean isn’t sure whether Cas is cognizant of the placement—whether or not he can feel the rapid staccato of Dean’s pulse beneath his palm—but he sure as hell ain’t complaining. When there’s a long stretch of straight pavement, Dean takes his left hand off the clutch and weaves his fingers in between Cas’ on his chest. He can feel his own heartbeat through Cas’ hand.

 

xXxXx

 

It’s the sort of restaurant where waiters have pristine white cloths draped over their arm; they pour wine at the table, and they all do the little flourish at the end, twisting the bottle and not spilling a drop. Sam did his research well.  

Once they’re seated and they’ve ordered their food, there’s small talk, swapping stories about the past couple of days. Cas animatedly recounts the rude old professor who was livid when they didn’t have some book about why praying mantises are singlehandedly contributing to climate change. Fed up, Cas had muttered under his breath—“And it should’ve been inaudible for someone that old!”—that their library didn’t house bullshit conspiracy theories. She threw a temper tantrum, assured Cas that the library would never again be graced with her presence and that she was going to report Cas to his superiors.

“Do you think you’re gonna get fired?” Dean asks playfully, nudging Cas’ foot under the table. 

Cas huffs. “I’ve seen my boss do worse for people who aren’t nearly as obnoxious,” he says, punctuated with an eye roll for good measure.

Dean snorts. Cas uses the lull in the conversation to change the subject.

“So, how was your day at work, Dean?” Cas raises an eyebrow and there’s a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Dean mumbles incoherently, and Cas leans in, cupping his ear. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Dean meets Cas’ challenging stare and raises his voice this time, so that Cas can undoubtedly hear his words above the din of the restaurant. “Y’know, it was a bit rough, since I had a fucking boner for 85% of the day. 

Naturally, that’s the moment their waiter comes over to top off their water.

Dean realizes a moment too late, and the poor man looks absolutely scandalized. He recovers, and then his stare turns stony, harsh and judgmental. 

“Sir, you cannot cuss or speak inappropriately on these premises. There are other patrons who are trying to _enjoy their dinner_.”

It takes an absurd amount of willpower for Dean to suppress the laughter that’s threatening to bubble up. Apparently, he’s reverted back to being the kid who giggles when he gets detention. It’s made worse by the fact that Dean actually notices now that another young couple is seated at the adjacent table and both of them are staring at him, jaws agape. Their expressions make it that much harder for Dean to hold himself together. He was not made for fancy restaurants.

“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” he promises the waiter, trying to channel the woebegone expression of a kid who breaks the window with his baseball and who isn’t really sorry one bit. The waiter may or may not buy it, he just nods curtly before he vanishes. Dean and Cas wait until he’s out of sight, then they burst out laughing, gasping and clutching their stomachs.

“You and your fucking boner have been banned from this restaurant,” Cas wheezes, and Dean doubles over, he’s genuinely guffawing at this point and it’s not even funny, he’s not a sixteen-year-old boy anymore, except for the part where it’s _fucking hilarious_.

They’re causing a scene and they’ve gotten several disapproving stares before they eventually pull themselves together, taking small sips of water, breathing deeply. Cas frowns down at his glass. “He was so distraught about your erection that he forgot to refill my water,” he says seriously, and Dean slides his glass across the table with a huge grin.

“D’ya think he’ll spit in my food?”

Cas forgoes the straw and just takes a sip of the water, then purposefully meets Dean’s gaze as he darts his tongue out to catch a stray drop of water on the outside of the glass. “Maybe he’ll try to slip a Viagra into your drink,” Cas says with a wink.

Dean swallows. He’s pretty sure he’s got a different problem. What’s the opposite of Erectile Dysfunction? Those four-hour hard-ons they warn you about in the commercials?

He’s pretty sure he has that instead.

 

xXxXx

 

It’s only once their food arrives (delivered by the bus boy, thank god) and Dean is halfway done with his steak when he notices.

He points at Cas’ garden salad. “Okay, please tell me you’re not on a diet.”

Cas shakes his head, and Dean is about to just shrug it off as _he probably just eats the same rabbit food as Sammy_ , but then, the light bulb goes on over his head.

He puts his fork down (with a freshly cut bite of medium-rare steak), looks at Cas wide-eyed.

“Wait. Please tell me you’re not one of those liberal hippie tree-hugging vegans.”

Cas chuckles. “I’m two and a half of those things. I think the two party system is bullshit, but I’m probably closer to being a Democrat than a Republican.” He spears another few greens, smiles at Dean. “And I’m just a vegetarian. I still eat eggs and dairy.”

Dean groans. “Why did you let me take you _here_?” he hisses. He’s only mindful of keeping his voice down because another server walks by their table, and he doesn’t want to get thrown out of the restaurant altogether.

Cas puts his fork down, too, reaches across the table to grab Dean’s hand, drawing his thumb across Dean’s knuckles in a soothing rhythm. 

“It doesn’t bother me, Dean. Vegetarians have it much easier than vegans in that we can generally find something to eat anywhere we go. And I’m not mad that you’re eating meat in front of me, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He squeezes Dean’s hand. “I’m not one of those asshole preachy vegetarians.”

Dean exaggeratedly wipes his free hand across his brow with a “phew!”

Cas squeezes his hand once before he lets go, shrugs. “I mean, I can’t kiss you later, ‘cause you ate meat. But that’s totally fine, we’ll work it out.” At Dean’s panicked stare, he laughs, his head thrown back, then he leans halfway across the table and wraps Dean’s tie around his hand, pulling him up from his seat for a kiss. It’s brief, just suction and chapped lips but it’s enough to whet Dean’s appetite—the one that isn’t currently being taken care of by the steak.

The next time a server passes, Dean hurriedly asks for the check.

 

xXxXx

 

When they leave the restaurant, they’re draped across each other in the most PDA fashion possible. Dean’s got his hand in Cas’ back pocket, and Cas is running his fingers through the fine hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck. Their waiter glares at them with enough fervor to actually bore a hole in the back of Dean’s head, he can feel the force of his close-mindedness even when they’re walking away. He exaggeratedly squeezes Cas’ ass, making it visible even with his hand covered by a layer of denim, and they’re both satisfied to hear the disgusted intake of breath behind them.

When they reach the Harley, Dean passes Cas’ helmet to him and says, “So, on a scale of awkward first dates, is this the worst you’ve ever had? Don’t hold back.”

Cas pretends to consider the question seriously. “Well, I can safely say no one has ever threatened to kick me out of a restaurant before.”

“And I took you to a carnivore’s paradise,” Dean adds helpfully.

“Yeah, you’re pretty much the worst first date I’ve ever had,” Cas declares with a mischievous grin, crowding into Dean’s space. The space between them disappears, but Cas doesn’t kiss Dean, just places his hand on Dean’s neck and pushes his thumb against the hickey from last week. It’s still purple, broken blood vessels and teeth marks not quite concealed by Dean’s collar, and Dean lolls his head back instinctively.

Cas sounds a little breathless. “I think my place is closer, right?”

Dean steps away and swings his leg over the bike so quickly, he bangs his shin on the exhaust pipe. Cas, the bastard, laughs, mounting the bike with far more grace than Dean, and he slings his arms low around Dean’s waist.

Cas applies pressure with his hands on Dean’s hips in order to direct Dean back to his place, and if Dean rocks backward into the touch, well, Cas doesn’t say anything.

 

xXxXx

 

Twilight has faded into streaks of azure and lingering crimson clouds by the time they’re at Cas’ house.

“You can take off your shoes and make yourself comfortable,” Cas calls over his shoulder as he walks through the living room and into the kitchen, tossing his keys on a small glass table nearby.

Dean toes off his shoes and is in the process of removing his socks when the massive bookshelf catches his eye. It’s at least as tall as Dean and it spans one full wall, exposed brick obscured by cherry wood. It’s impressive, to say the least. There are probably more books here than Dean has read in his entire life.

He steps in to examine what’s in Cas’ library. There’s one section seemingly dedicated to old books, and Dean has the sudden image of Cas in various used bookstores, running his fingers along spines of books that are falling apart, needing to be rebound, handling them like they’re treasures.

Cas emerges from the kitchen with two glasses of water, pads over to where Dean is standing and offers one to him.

 “What’s the oldest one you’ve got?” Dean asks, nodding his head toward the shelf. He’s afraid to touch them, afraid they’d crumble in his hands.

It’s not a fear Cas has, though. He hands Dean his water glass and clucks his tongue as his eyes scan the shelf. He makes a small “ah!” noise, and with great care, he coaxes a book out. Dean steps in to peer over his shoulder.

It doesn’t look like the oldest—others have bindings that are merely formalities, just glue and crumpled paper now, pages that appear more yellow with age—but Cas opens it, and Dean squints at the date printed on the bottom.

“1885,” Cas breathes. “It’s Edward Payson Roe, _An Original Belle_. He was a Presbytarian pastor, and he managed to ease some of the Puritans into reading fiction. They didn’t like it much before then.”

Cas edges the book back into its designated slot. “My favorite ones are the ones I buy that have something in them.”

“What do you mean?”

Cas pulls out another book. He leafs through the delicate pages until he finds a slip of paper.

“It’s an appointment card to a hospital in New York with a Doctor Douglas. It’s from 1943.”

Dean stares at the yellowed paper, dumbstruck by the messy scrawl, the ink that has hardly faded over seventy years. Cas inserts the appointment card back in between the pages and returns the novel it to its rightful place.  “Can you imagine that? It was in the middle of World War II. A soldier could’ve brought the book to the hospital, and was probably reading it when he got the date of his next appointment, so he used it as a bookmark. I didn’t even look to see what the book was before I bought it. I felt like I needed to have it in order to preserve a small piece of someone’s life, you know?”

Dean’s answering “yeah” is hushed, thoughtful. It never once occurred to him that a book could tell a story other than the one printed on its pages, but he understands why it appeals to Cas so much.

“I’ve also found old photographs used as bookmarks. Once, I found a hotel napkin that served as a makeshift contract, a guy promising someone that he’d give them ten percent of the first million he made. It was from 1997. I bought that book, too.” Cas takes his water glass back from Dean and takes a sip. “I wonder if he kept his promise.”

Dean can’t help the smile that splits his face at Cas’ childlike curiosity, his need to fabricate the stories of other peoples’ lives. There are details here, between the pages of books, that other people wouldn’t notice, or wouldn’t think twice about throwing away—irrelevant, unimportant. Cas, however, cherishes these small keepsakes even more than the pages that hold them. 

Cas notices him staring and turns his eyes downward, misinterpreting Dean’s silence. He mutters, “Sorry, I’m probably boring you.”

“No!” Dean protests quickly, and Cas meets his gaze, then, curious. “I like—it’s—” Dean presses his lips together and tries to assemble the words he needs. He holds his hand out, gesturing to the sprawling bookcase.

“I like hearing you talk about it. It’s something that gives you joy,” Dean cringes at how cheesy that sounds, but presses on, “and I’m not bored. I couldn’t be, ‘cause it’s something you really like.”

(Oh god, if Sam overheard this conversation, he’d never hear the end of it.)

Cas swallows and takes a step in. Dean closes his eyes, feeling monumentally stupid, but the feeling dissipates when Cas’ lips brush, feather light, across his hairline. He presses a kiss to Dean’s temple, the curve of his eyebrow, the crinkles at the corner of his eye. For his part, Dean feels stripped bare, naked in a different way than what he felt as Cas shoved him into the bookshelves last week. It’s nerve wracking, but he’s surprised to find that the instinct to run doesn’t surface. As he stills beneath Cas’ touch, he’s embarrassed but he isn’t flighty. He files that information away to be studied at a later date, sometime when he has more of an attention span and he isn’t feeling so damn affectionate.

Then, Dean shifts his weight and sheepishly mumbles, “Not to break the moment, but where’s your bathroom?”

Cas doesn’t misinterpret Dean this time, knows he’s being genuine, and he just laughs. “Here. Come on.”

He tugs Dean along with his free hand, stopping in front of the bathroom and pointing at an open door just down the hall. “I’ll be in my room,” he says, eyebrow raised like a challenge as he takes the water glass from Dean’s hand and saunters off. Dean stands there gaping for probably ten seconds until his brain kicks in and tells him to _get a fucking move on._  

When Dean enters the bedroom a minute later, Cas rises from where he’d been sitting on the bed, approaching and closing the door. He turns to face Dean with a coy smile, and Dean’s been dreaming about the guy’s mouth since approximately 1:00 this afternoon—since last week, since three months ago, really—and he’s not about to play hard to get. He takes a step forward, then another, bringing them nose to nose. Dean sucks on his bottom lip unconsciously, and feels his cock throb when Cas’ eyes flicker down to his mouth. Dean closes the distance and kisses him, undulating against him in a rush of _thankgod_ and _fuckingfinally_. 

 Cas licks into his mouth like he’s trying to memorize the flavor of Dean’s tonsils, a hand on Dean’s cheek to angle him down and keep his jaw slack as Cas strokes Dean’s palate, flicks across his molars. Dean needs to touch Cas everywhere, everywhere _now_ , and there’s too much clothing. He impatiently untucks Cas’ shirt and shoves his hands underneath, and Cas huffs against his cheek, amused. Quickly, though, the sound morphs to a groan as Dean’s palms map Cas’ chest. Cas sucks on Dean’s bottom lip, biting down, and the sting is enough to make Dean jolt against Cas’ body, something like a whimper low in his throat. 

Cas releases Dean’s lip, and they press their foreheads together, shallow breaths and greedy hands running over exposed skin. Cas does the same thing he did at dinner, wraps Dean’s tie around his fist and tugs backward, walking them toward the bed without breaking their stare. Dean lets himself be led, he’s long since accepted that Cas pulling him around presses buttons he didn’t even know he had. Cas’ legs hit the mattress behind him and he climbs on, scooting backwards, yanking Dean with him. Dean crawls forward obediently as Cas lies on his back, only releasing Dean’s tie when they’re pressed flush together and he reclaims Dean’s mouth eagerly. The burn of Cas’ stubble, the slick of sweat and the lingering traces of cologne—it’s heady, intoxicating. Dean feels like he’s three whiskies into a humid summer night, and he could do this for hours, rutting against Cas’ hip while Cas runs his tongue along his incisors.

Cas, however, has other plans. He sets to work on Dean’s tie, loosening it enough to pull it over Dean’s head and toss it aside, begins unbuttoning Dean’s shirt. He’s got his jaw set like he’s determined, and Dean would help him, but he’s supporting his weight with his elbows on either side of Cas’ head and the notion of sitting back, putting physical distance between them, holds no appeal. Instead, he decides, he’s gonna try to sidetrack Cas’ current mission, break through his stubborn concentration. See if he can get the upper hand.

He lowers himself down and now he feels Cas’ fingers moving deftly between their chests. That is, until Dean takes Cas’ earlobe between his teeth and worries the flesh gently before he moves on to the skin behind the shell of Cas’ ear. Cas’ movements falter, and Dean uses it to his advantage, continuing down, pressing open mouthed kisses just beneath Cas’ jaw and down his throat. Cas managed to get Dean’s shirt open before he’d gone still, and now his hands slide beneath, to shrug it off from Dean’s shoulders, but Dean chooses that moment to fasten his lips to Cas’ neck and bite, laving his tongue and sucking. Cas finally gives up on attempting to remove Dean’s shirt and instead uses his hands on Dean’s shoulders to crush them together, head to toe, their cocks sliding alongside each other through layers of polyester and cotton. Cas bares his neck readily, and the sight is glorious, pornographic all by itself.

“I want you so badly, Dean,” Cas whispers. Simple words, but it’s like someone reached inside him, drizzled his organs with lighter fluid, and set him aflame. He releases Cas’ throat with one final bite, then finally sits up to divest himself of his shirts.

He stays upright after he tosses the garments aside, straddles Cas and crawls forward on his knees until he can grind his ass down onto Cas’ erection, does it again when Cas’ lips fall apart, eyes fluttering shut.

About a minute later, his hands fly to Dean’s hips to hold him still, and before Dean can analyze what he did wrong, Cas grits out “I’m too close already.”

His hands are a vice grip on Dean’s waist. Dean leans over again, rubbing his face into Cas’ shoulder and admitting quietly, “I’ve been close since we left your house, when you first climbed on my bike.”

Cas shoves Dean back gently and takes the moment to rake his gaze down Dean’s body. All Dean can do is hold still, the tips of his ears burning. Cas’ hands travel from Dean’s hips to his chest, then he traces his fingers down, down, along the borders and curves of tattoos, tantalizingly slowly. Dean wishes he could suppress the full-body shudder that accompanies the action, but Cas moans, and this time, as his hands roam Dean’s chest, he intentionally rakes his nails down, pleasure and pain and fire in the wake of Cas’ touch. He looks smug as Dean falls forward onto him.

Dean doesn’t have any warning before Cas flips them over, his knees coming up to bracket Cas’ hips. Cas moves out of Dean’s grasp so that he can sit back on his heels. He’s able to shed his clothing quickly (the fucker wore an actual honest-to-God bowtie), and then he’s kneeling before Dean completely naked, allowing Dean to take in the sight. Dean’s breath catches somewhere in his throat and Cas flushes, somehow managing cocky and bashful within several seconds. 

“Your turn,” he murmurs, and he undoes Dean’s belt, pulling his pants off, but he doesn’t seem to have any intention of removing his briefs. Dean is about to voice confusion (and probably impatience) but Cas crawls up Dean’s body, stopping to swirl his tongue across different tattoos as he goes, his cock weighing hot and heavy between his legs. When he’s is finally back at eyelevel, Dean pulls Cas down on top of him and claims his mouth, too much spit and teeth but it’s _so damn good,_ Dean swallowing every muffled noise Cas makes _._

This time, Cas is the one to pull away for air, mouthing across Dean’s jaw while his fingers trace down Dean’s throat. Dean knows exactly when Cas comes across the blue-purple hickey he left last week, because he gasps and ruts against Dean’s thigh (and oh, the trail of slick precome is a pressing reminder that if they don’t get the show on the road _soon_ , it may be over before it even starts).

Dean lets out a half-laugh, half-moan. “The guys at the garage gave me so much shit for that,” he mutters, and Cas pulls back, flashing a wicked grin.

“But you didn’t mind, did you, Dean?” he drawls, and Dean jumps as Cas pinches his nipple between two fingers, tweaking and flicking, just this side of rough. Dean arches off the bed, pushing into Cas’ touch as he watches Dean beneath hooded lids, eyes glittering.

“You liked the reminder of what we did in the library.” His fingers still until Dean opens his eyes, meeting Cas’ gaze, and he looks impish, his eyes crinkled with mischief and clouded with want.

“Whenever any of your coworkers said anything, all you could think about was fucking my mouth. Today wasn’t the first time you were hard at work, Dean, was it?” He draws his thumb around Dean’s nipple, his nail skirting the edges of it, and nips at Dean’s chin. He repeats the question again as his teeth work at the bolt of Dean’s jaw, scraping, carving the question into Dean’s bones.

Dean’s answering “No” is barely there, breathed on an exhale, and he shakes his head to add emphasis. Clears his throat and tries to regain agency of his voice (he’s not sure when it was shot to hell, but yeah, it’s basically gone).

Before he can say anything, Cas is back at his eyelevel, smoothing his thumb along Dean’s cheekbone, his lips ghosting over Dean’s, and when he whispers into Dean’s mouth, he’s not taunting anymore.

“Every time you turned your head at the restaurant, and I saw it—”

He breaks off and slots their hips together, rocking into Dean pointedly. Dean wraps his arms around Cas’ neck and hangs on, dizzy with desire. Cas somehow manages to finish the thought, confessing breathlessly, “I thought we were going to have to leave early.”

They thrust like that against each other, separated only by the thin cotton of Dean’s briefs. It’s uncoordinated and frantic, and Dean could be completely satisfied with just this, rolling their hips against each other.  

Dean grunts when Cas extricates himself from Dean’s arms, but then he’s drifting down Dean’s body and he takes Dean’s nipple into his mouth, both hands sliding from the small of Dean’s back to the elastic of his briefs. When Cas moves his hands down, fingers splayed across Dean’s ass, Dean is torn between pressing up into Cas’ mouth, or back into the grasp of his hands, and ends up doing both. He needs to be naked. Five minutes ago. 

Evidently, Cas agrees, because suddenly his hands are carefully peeling cotton away, down his legs and off, and Dean’s cock slaps up against his stomach obscenely.

Cas switches his attention to the other nipple, the rasp of his tongue and the insistent suction just enough to drive Dean completely out of his mind. With his right hand, Cas reaches out to his nightstand, opening the top drawer and fumbling until he locates a small bottle.

This time, he doesn’t tease at all; he moves so quickly, Dean barely has any time to process what’s happening. Cas grabs a pillow and shoves it beneath Dean’s hips, tilting his pelvis up, and in the next second, Cas’ face is between his legs, nosing his balls and then pressing his tongue flat against Dean’s hole.

“Oh holy _fuck_.” Dean cants his hips toward the heat of Cas’ mouth, letting his legs fall farther apart. Cas laps at the tense muscle, kissing and applying generous amounts of spit until Dean feels filthy with it. He tries to tether himself in the sheets, twisting the linens in his clenched fists in a meager attempt to ground himself. Cas hums admonishment (Dean _feels_ the vibration ricochet up his spine) and pries the rumpled fabric from Dean’s grasp. He guides Dean’s hand to his own head, and Dean threads his fingers into Cas’ hair, holding on for dear life. Cas occupies Dean’s other hand by interlacing their fingers, and when he dips the tip of his tongue in, Dean’s surprised he doesn’t break Cas’ hand.

Cas is patient. He licks into Dean’s body in increments, and retreats when there’s resistance, using his free hand to stroke Dean’s belly, ribs, thighs. Cas expels the tension from Dean’s body with hushed words and the gentle pressure of his tongue, coaxing him open until he’s pliant and relaxed, strung out on sensation, his awareness narrowed to where Cas is licking him open. 

“More, Cas,” he demands roughly, and Cas doesn’t make him say it twice. He slides a finger inside, cool lubricant contrasting Cas’ saliva. Dean hisses, but he fucks down into it anyway, and then Cas is pressing a second finger inside along the first, tongue sliding in between as he scissors his fingers. He’s gentle, doesn’t push until Dean’s body has yielded. Cas is sliding his fingers in and out, his tongue circling the rim, and when he twists his wrist, Dean cries out from the numbing pleasure of it, and somehow it’s still not enough, not nearly enough. He pulls on Cas’ hair intently until he looks up. His hair’s a mess, eyes wild, chin glistening with spit and lube. Dean’s been so lost in Cas’ fingers and tongue, he didn’t even notice that Cas has been humping the bed, stilted jerks of his hips into the comforter, and he tugs harder.

“C’mere,” he says, absently noticing that his voice is positively wrecked, and then not giving a fuck. 

Cas slinks up Dean’s body. His cock slides through the cleft of Dean’s ass and they both exhale in a rush. Cas takes initiative and lunges across Dean’s chest, fumbling in his dresser for a condom, but Dean slides his hand up Cas’ arm, wrapping his fingers around Cas’ wrist. 

“This is probably a conversation we should’ve had before you put your mouth on my cock,” Dean murmurs, and he feels the shiver roll through Cas’ body from his gruff words. He forces some semblance of clarity into his brain in order to complete the sentence. “But, I’m clean. I haven’t done anything in—” He chuckles self-consciously. “A while. And I’ve checked since then.”

Cas is frozen, one hand supporting his weight on wood that matches the bookshelf in the living room, and he looks down when Dean finishes speaking. In the space of those heartbeats, the brief silence, Dean notices the minute trembling of Cas’ wrist, realizes that Cas’ entire arm is shaking, and he leans forward, brushing his lips against the soft skin of Cas’ underarm, leaving a trail of kisses from his armpit down to his elbow.

Cas pushes off from the dresser, lowers himself back onto Dean’s body, his elbows on either side of Dean’s head. His gaze is probing, searching Dean’s face thoroughly as he mouths, “You sure?” against Dean’s lips.

Dean nods without hesitation, whispers “yes” and “I want to feel you” as he cants his hips up. Cas slides his hands under Dean’s shoulders and gasps against his collarbone.

Dean wraps his legs around Cas’ waist, linking his ankles together. It’s all the encouragement Cas needs. He searches blindly until he finds the bottle of lube again, and he slicks his cock up while he sucks another mark onto Dean’s shoulder. Dean is panting, his mouth suddenly dry, and he runs his hands along Cas’ back, needing to touch. Cas pauses, stock still and when Dean spares a glance between their bodies, Cas is gripping the base of his cock, gritting his teeth. Dean strokes Cas’ jaw until it unclenches beneath the pads of his fingers.

“Not gonna last either. It’s okay. Next time.”

Cas’ eyes snap open at that, and Dean’s blood boils—he recognizes the shock and then the affection in Cas’ gaze. He hadn’t even considered the implication of his words until he’d said them, and when Cas beams at him, dopey and genuine, and Dean’s heart lurches. Cas kisses his nose, then he lines up, his cock nudging at Dean’s opening and he waits for Dean to nod before he pushes in. He stops with just the head engulfed in Dean’s body, holding still as Dean breathes through the inevitable burn, teeth digging into his lower lip.

It takes conscious thought to get his body to relax around Cas, and when he’s ready, he digs his heels into the small of Cas’ back, urging him onward. Cas eases in slowly, and Dean can feel every inch of him, velvet and firm and scalding hot. Cas stops again when he’s fully inside, biting gently at the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder. And yeah, it hurts, but there’s lust pounding relentlessly through Dean’s body, zipping along his spine, sparking _everywhere_ , and it’s enough to override the pain. He reaches down, grabs Cas’ ass to drag him impossibly closer, and they begin to move.

Cas doesn’t bother trying to set a careful pace, Dean notes, and he’s glad for it. He feels wrung out, stripped down and haphazardly reassembled in the careful hands of the man above him, around him, inside him.

“Cas, _please_ ,” he begs, squeezing his thighs. He drapes a hand across the back of Cas’ neck, feeling pinned down by the weight of Cas’ gaze, by the unnatural blue eclipsed by blown pupils. On the next thrust, Cas twists his hips and the angle is exquisite. Dean clutches at Cas’ back and whimpers.

Cas gasps, “Dean” and he feels Cas’ cock twitch, his whole body strung taut. His jaw drops and his brow furrows, and Dean presses his palm to Cas’ cheek. Cas’ eyes pry open and Dean runs his thumb along the bow of Cas’ lip, and it’s enough to tip Cas over, jerking and spilling inside Dean’s body. Dean watches, spellbound, and he knows he’ll be close behind, the warmth like whisky coiled deep in his gut. Cas seals their mouths together and that’s it, Dean comes as Cas inhales the air from his lungs. The sensation of their stomachs becoming sticky is distant, because Dean is lost in everything else—Cas rubbing his lips and scruffy cheek in Dean’s neck, the puffs of air against his skin as Cas catches his breath, the shape of Cas’ nails still indented on Dean’s thigh.

He feels Cas’ arms trembling and he shifts, forcing Cas to collapse on top of him. Their stomachs slide against each other, slick with come and sweat, but Dean doesn’t care. They catch their breath together, panting into each other’s mouths. Before too much time passes, Cas pulls out slowly, kissing the corner of Dean’s mouth when he grimaces. He assures Dean that he’ll be right back and he disappears down the hall.

As promised, Cas is back momentarily, and he gently wipes Dean down with a warm washcloth, starting with the sweat pooled at his temples, moving down attentively, barely applying pressure, sweeping over Dean’s body with great care. He opens his closet door to toss the cloth into the hamper, turns the lights off, then he’s beneath the sheets, pulling the blankets up over Dean, too.

They face each other, swollen lips curved into small smiles, like a secret passed back and forth in the dark. Dean spends a minute trying to figure out what feels off about the situation, why he feels like he should be doing something, before he realizes that this is usually around the time he yanks his clothes on, gives his date a halfhearted kiss goodnight, and hightails it out of there. This, this period of being able to come down, to stare at each other and just breathe, it's not something he's used to. 

He finds, though, that he quite likes it.

Cas must be reading his mind. “Stay the night?” he asks, hushed.

Dean responds by turning around and pressing his back against Cas’ chest, turning his face to catch Cas' mouth in a kiss. Cas wraps his arm around Dean’s waist, fingertips making lazy circles on Dean’s hip as his breaths even out against his neck.

 

xXxXx

 

Dean’s phone chirps three separate times around 5:30 a.m. He’s careful not to jostle Cas’ sleeping form as he pulls away, sweeping his bare feet across the carpet until he finds his pants and digs his phone out.

 _+1-650  
_ So when can I meet him?

 _+1-650  
_ And when can I send out the aforementioned “Save the Date” cards?

 _+1-650_  
I believe you expressed interest in doilies?

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Two months have passed, and they’re sitting side by side on the couch, watching some dumb movie and eating pizza when Cas leans over, puts the half eaten slice on the coffee table, and mutes the TV. Dean looks at him quizzically, raising an eyebrow. Cas turns to face him, tucking one leg up beneath him.

“Would you be willing to tell the meaning behind your tattoos?”

Dean’s caught off guard by it. His tats haven’t come up since before they started their… thing. Cas takes his silence as hesitation, and rushes to amend, “I know tattoos tend to be very personal, and you really don’t h—“

“No, no. It’s okay.” Yeah, they’re personal, but this is Cas. It’s kind of a no-brainer.

Cas lightly runs his finger up and down Dean’s thigh. “Do you have a favorite?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah.”

Cas seems to consider that, then the corner of his mouth quirks up. “Okay, which one has the most interesting story?”

Dean chuckles. Even though he knows exactly where all of his tats are, he still glances down his body, taking stock. They’ve all got interesting background stories, all of them have meaning, but some are definitely more entertaining than others.

He lifts his arm, points to one slightly above the crease of his elbow. It’s a bottle of Bulleit. “This was from the first time Sammy got drunk when he was sixteen. He came home super bummed about a test grade, or something stupid, and I just decided it was time.”

Cas gives him a look. “He was upset, so you poured a depressant down his throat?”

Dean holds his hands up in a defensive gesture. “He’d been begging, for forever. He didn’t wanna get drunk for his first time around his friends. Guess he only trusted me to hold his hair back if he puked.”

“Well, did he?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck. “Surprisingly, no. It ended up being more of a, uh, caring and sharing sort of night. One of my friends came over and did the tattoo at, like, two in the morning. I paid good money for this tattoo,” Dean says, slapping it a few times for good measure. Cas still doesn’t say anything.

Hesitantly, Dean adds, “It was the first time Sammy and I really connected in a long ass time. Things were tough growing up, especially once he hit puberty.” Dean licks his lips, remembering. “I guess maybe it’s a bit pathetic, that it took alcohol to get us on the same page. But after that, things sorta, I dunno. Shifted, I guess.” Dean traces the tattoo of the inked bottle with his finger. “It’s a stupid tattoo, but I’ve never regretted it. Sam made fun of me forever, once his hangover went away. But it felt important.” He ends with a shrug.

Cas is still, and Dean begins to worry that perhaps he disclosed too much. But then Cas shifts closer, so that his leg folded up on the couch is snugged right up against Dean’s thigh. He kisses two fingers, and presses them above the crease of Dean’s elbow, to the middle of the bottle.

It’s so tender, it takes Dean by surprise. He finds Cas does that a lot. The fondness bubbling up must show on his face, because Cas leans in to kiss his mouth, a quick peck. He tucks his head in the crook of Dean’s neck and breathes, “What else?”

Dean hums, then points to the inside of his other arm, between his elbow and his wrist. “Winchester rifle,” he explains gruffly. “Pretty straightforward. We used to hunt with my dad. It seemed fitting.”

Again, Cas traces the shape of it with his finger, and then he grabs Dean’s wrist and tugs lightly until he can brush his lips over it.

Dean’s skin is tingling everywhere Cas is touching him, and Cas gives him a wry grin when he draws his thumb back and forth across Dean’s wrist. He can probably feel the increase of Dean’s pulse. Heat rises to the tips of Dean’s ears and he certainly feels vulnerable right now, but somehow, he still feels safe. Cas just sort of has that effect on people.

“The story you told those kids at the library, about this one,” Cas lays his hand across Dean’s neck, covering the dragon with his palm, “was that true?”

Dean has to think for a second to remember what Cas is talking about, then he huffs a laugh. “Yeah, it was.” He sobers. “It feels like there was only a small window where I got to be a normal kid. You know? Once Mom died, I became responsible for raising Sam. I read him fairytales and shit when he was younger. He used to love that old one, um, the one with the girl, and the mice, and her abusive family...”

Cas cocks his head. “Snow White?”

“No, no, no, the other one. It has a fuckin’ shoe or something.”

“Oh! Cinderella.” Cas beams. “Sam used to like that one?”

“Kid was obsessed,” Dean grumbles. “I could practically recite the damn thing to him by the time he was four.” Dean drops his gaze and begins to pick at a stray thread on the sofa. “For a while after Mom died, I kept reading it to him. It comforted him. But then, it didn’t feel right anymore.”

Cas gives him a sad smile. “Did he complain your mom read it better?”

Dean twists the beige thread between his thumb and pointer finger. “No, actually. He liked when I did it. I did this high, squeaky voice for the mice. He thought it was the most hilarious thing in the world.”

“Then what happened?”

Dean lifts his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I mean, it was a story about a girl in a shitty family, right? And then she’s got this fairy godmother who sweeps in and takes her away to a fucking castle.” Dean meets Cas’ eyes and he’s relieved to find no traces of pity, just empathy, understanding. “That was when Dad started drinking all the time, if he was even home. I think Sam wanted a fairy godmother, and there wasn’t one coming. I didn’t want to keep deluding him.”

Cas hums thoughtfully. “Have you ever told him all of that?” Dean raises his eyebrows and Cas scoffs. “Now, I mean. Have you explained that to him now?”

Dean makes a  _pfft_  noise. “Sam and I may’ve gotten better at talking about our feelings, but we’re not that good. ’Sides, Sammy does know what this,” he covers Cas’ hand with his own over the tattoo, “is a tribute to. He knows it’s the fairytales and shit Mom used to read us. That’s damn mushy enough.”

Cas seems to sense that he’s completely laid Dean bare, and he must feel that it’s his turn to do some sharing of his own, because he removes his hand and replaces it with his mouth, pressing his tongue flat against Dean’s neck. Dean’s completely on board with this turn of events and he tips his head back without much thought.

He feels Cas’ words rumble against his skin. “It was the first tattoo of yours I noticed. I kinda thought you were a tool when I first saw it.” Dean barks a laugh at the ceiling. He knows how the dragon probably looks to other people. He can’t really protest, nor does he care.

“But then you told those kids what it was.” The drag of Cas’ stubble, Cas’ lips nudging behind the shell of his ear, it’s enough to make Dean’s head start to go cloudy, and he has to concentrate to listen to what Cas is actually saying.

“And I watched them playing dragons for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Is that when you figured out how hopelessly ass over heels you were for me?” Dean jumps in, trying to sound conceited, to lighten the mood, but arousal has pitched his voice an octave lower, and he doesn’t quite make the note of sarcasm that he’d aimed for.

“Yeah,” Cas replies easily, without any hesitation. His mouth travels Dean’s jaw, and then he’s cupping Dean’s face and their noses are brushing. “And then you brought me coffee. And that sealed the deal.”

He kisses Dean, just a slick slide of lips moving together, mouths closed, and they do that for several minutes. Dean knows Cas has fucked him up because somehow, even  _this_  is good. He could probably keep going until one of them fell asleep, but then Cas turns things, presses his tongue in at the same time he grabs Dean’s ass and drags him closer.

Cas’ hands are everywhere, and when he breaks away and asks, “What else?”, slightly out of breath, Dean doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about. It must be fairly obvious, because Cas shoves at him, somehow rearranges him so that he’s lying on his belly flat on the couch, with Cas straddling his thighs, just below his ass.

Dean folds his arms and pillows his head, turning to the side so he can glance back at Cas. “What about these? Constellations?” Cas presses his fingers to the small dots that span one of Dean’s shoulder blade. They’re almost small enough to be mistaken for freckles.

“Yeah. Mine, Sammy’s, Mom’s.”

“You’re Aquarius.” Cas leans down and traces the shape, connects the dots, with his goddamn tongue. Dean rolls his hips back. “I think you said Sam’s birthday is the first week of May, so he’s a Taurus.” Dean is about to protest that it’s weird for Cas to lick the constellation meant to represent Sammy, but Cas punctuates it with his teeth this time, and Dean abruptly ceases caring. “That must mean your mom’s a Sagittarius.” He presses open-mouthed kisses to hers, and Dean swears that Cas has the special ability to make the same gesture both reverent and incredibly dirty, all at the same time. It’s a true talent.

“You have a lot of tattoos for your family,” Cas notes. Dean can only squirm underneath him.

This feels like worship, and he’s caught between feeling unworthy, and wanting so desperately to believe that maybe for Cas he  _could_  be good enough.

Cas moves from his left shoulder to his right, where there’s a motorcycle spanning vertically from the top of his shoulder to the middle of his ribcage. It’s the most detailed tattoo he has.

“This isn’t your bike,” Cas says, and Dean nods, not-so-subtly shifting his hips to try to get some friction against the couch cushions.

“It's a Vincent Black Shadow, 1948. The first bike I fixed up at Bobby’s, it belonged to an old guy. He’d been meaning to sell it, didn’t have much use for it anymore, but when he came back to collect it and he saw me with it, he just gave it to me, right then and there. Said something,” Dean breaks off with a whine as Cas palms his ass, but determinedly finishes, “about the fact that he’d never ‘seen anyone’s eyes sparkle so much’ just by looking at a piece of machinery.”

“He didn’t make you pay for it?”

“No. Just made me promise I’d always be super careful driving it. Always wear a helmet and all that.”

“I haven’t seen it, do you still have it?” Cas stretches out now, pressing himself along Dean’s back to bite at his ear. He thrusts lazily against Dean’s ass, and Dean shudders.

“Yeah, actually. It’s at Sammy’s place. He’s got a more secure garage. I think he takes it for joyrides sometimes.”

“Wanna take a joyride on it with you,” Cas replies, emphasizing with a downward thrust. Dean pants, trying to roll over to his back but Cas squeezes his thighs, bracketing Dean’s hips and pinning him down.

He slowly pulls down Dean’s sweats and boxers, leaving them bunched around his ankles, and mouths across Dean’s lower back. It takes a few seconds for Dean to recall that there’s ink there. It’s the one Sam refers to as his “tramp stamp.”

“This one looks vaguely Wiccan. Or Satanic?”

Well, he’s close. “Yeah, devil’s trap.”

He feels Cas laugh against the small of his back, the arch where sweat is beginning to pool. “Trying to keep the demons out of your ass, Dean?”

Dean just makes some sort of noncommittal mmmmm as Cas bites, hard, sucking and laving until there’s definitely gonna be a mark there near what Cas affectionately calls his “love handles” (Cas makes it sound like a good thing, so all of Dean’s protests are halfhearted).

Cas dips his tongue into the crack of Dean’s ass, teasing, a light brush then he’s moving down to knead at Dean’s muscles, digging his teeth in a few times for good measure. Dean’s leaking against the couch cushions now, turned on beyond belief.

Cas gets to the tattoo on the back of Dean’s right calf. He presses his thumb into it. “Are you a musician?”

Dean hauls up on his elbows, now that Cas isn’t kneeling on top of him, and turns to meet Cas’ eye over his shoulder. “Yeah. Had to sell my guitars to keep up with Sammy’s loans.”

Cas raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised. “Was this one yours?”

“Nope. It’s a Harmony Sovereign, H-1260. The acoustic Jimmy Page used in the early seventies.”

Cas bends Dean’s knee to place a kiss on the bone of his ankle, then crawls back up Dean’s body. He finally pulls until Dean’s on his back, slotting himself between Dean’s legs, fusing their lips together, licking into Dean’s mouth like ownership, like he’s the final brand on Dean’s body. The cotton of Cas’ sweats against Dean’s cock is maddening, so good and not nearly enough. Dean yanks Cas’ pants off with an undignified huff, grinning when Cas’ laugh turns to a moan when he finally touches him.

He pushes on Cas’ shoulders, back and back until he’s lying against the pillows and Dean’s hovering over him. He slides his hands up Cas’ legs slowly while he traces the divot of Cas’ hipbone with his tongue. His hands and mouth meet in the middle at Cas’ cock, and Dean looks up. Cas is staring down at him with some mixture of fondness and need.

“Thought this was supposed to be about you,” Cas mutters, threading his fingers through Dean’s hair. Dean uses his thumb to smear the precome from the slit all along the head, grinning wolfishly when Cas’ eyes roll back in his head. After all, this thing goes both ways. Dean does his fair share of lying back and letting Cas have his wicked way with him. Maybe he does his fair share of letting Cas fuck him senseless, until he’s melded into the mattress and he’s shaking like a leaf, until he can feel Cas in his bones.

But, “Now it’s my turn,” Dean whispers, half a response to Cas and half to his own musings, and he swallows Cas’ cock to the root. 

Cas bucks up into Dean’s mouth and Dean lets him. Truth be told, Dean’s a pretty big fan of cock. Particularly Cas’. And he kinda loves letting Cas fuck his mouth.

This time, they alternate, with Dean holding Cas down for a bit, pinning his hips to the couch to suck him down. Cas’ fingers scrabble against his scalp, like he doesn’t even know what to do with himself. Then Dean lets up, lets Cas go so he can fuck up into Dean’s mouth, into his throat, until he knows he’ll feel the burn after. He pulls off and licks at Cas’ balls until Cas is panting, then swirls his tongue around the head a bunch, something he’s learned makes Cas go nuts.

Cas is generally quieter than Dean, but he always makes quiet little “ah!” sounds when he’s really close. They build, a steady melody of sex—Dean’s slurping, the creak of the cushions as Cas tries to chase the heat of Dean’s mouth, the gentle noises falling from Cas’ lips. Cas’ fingers tighten in his hair right before he comes and Dean bears down after the first splash of it hits his tongue, swallowing and licking Cas clean.

No time passes before Cas hauls him up, manhandling until Dean is on all fours above him. Cas sits halfway up against the arm of the couch and begins to jack Dean off with one hand, the other sliding down Dean’s back to press against his rim, the barest pressure of sweat-slick fingers. Dean swears a blue streak and comes in less than a minute, collapsing on top of Cas, spent and so content that he may not move for days.

He zones in and out, comes back to himself when Cas begins to mouth at his temple. Dean falls to the side, caught between Cas’ body and the back of the couch. He traces a thumb along Cas’ cheekbone, marveling for the hundredth time how damn  _pretty_  Cas’ eyes are.

“So, what prompted that?”

Cas shrugs. “Been meaning to for a while. I didn’t know how you’d take it.”

Dean looks at him incredulously. As though Cas asking about his tats would ever prompt a negative response.

“I really like your tattoos, Dean,” Cas says with a wry smirk. Dean curls into him, planting a kiss on his chest and murmuring, “No shit, Sherlock.”


	6. Chapter 6

He and Cas don’t really get the chance to have a honeymoon phase. They still have sex whenever they can, and Dean hasn’t had sex this good in years. Maybe not ever. But they’ve both already got routines, nine-to-five jobs. Dean visits Cas at the library, and he gives up the pretense of coming for the sake of books. He perfects the art of sneaking in coffee, and even some pastries here and there. Cas is horrified, but he eats them all the same, and even sucks his fingers clean of any powdered sugar. (Dean then has to lick the crumbs from the corners of Cas’ mouth, because they can’t risk anything that would give away that Cas is  _eating_  near the  _books_.) They do try to avoid having sex in the library, so there are only one or two blowjobs and/or rimjobs that take place amidst the stacks. The biography section has seen more of Dean than anyone ever should. Otherwise, at home, they manage to make it to the bed. Or the couch.

(Most of the time.)

Dean discovers that he really doesn’t mind skipping over the rainbows and butterflies stage of the relationship. This, what they have, is  _comfortable._  It’s takeout and dumb reality shows or Netflix when Dean smells like gasoline and Cas has paper cuts on his hands. Then they do the dishes side-by-side, one of them washing and one drying. It feels to Dean like they rarely run out of things to talk about, but when they’re both feeling quiet, the silences are companionable. They haven’t moved in together yet, six months in, but Dean knows it’ll happen as soon as one of their leases is up. They practically live together, anyway.

It’s of those quiet nights as they’re doing dishes, with Cas washing and Dean drying, that Cas brings it up.

“Why haven’t I met Sam yet?”

Dean’s proud that he doesn’t drop his plate. “You don’t lead into things easy, do you?”

Cas smiles wryly. Dean looks over and takes him in as he runs the towel around the outside edge of a plate. Cas has his sleeves rolled up his elbow— he  _knows_  what that does to Dean—and he’s got suds glistening on his forearms. His posture is relaxed, loose, easy, and Dean exhales slowly. Cas isn’t upset, he’s curious.

Dean’s not surprised by the question, but he’s still struggling to find a response as he puts the utensils away and Cas starts in on cups.

“Whatever you’re thinking, if you think it has anything to do with you, you’re wrong,” Dean says slowly. Cas meets his eyes, seems to understand that Dean is telling the truth, and he nods, easily accepting.

“Okay.” He hands Dean a glass and drains the sink, bracing his weight on the counter. “Is it that you’re worried I won’t like him?”

Dean actually guffaws at that. Cas and Sam will get along just fine. “No, it isn’t that.”

As the suds swirl down the drain, Cas turns the faucet on and sprays down the sink, washing his arms and hands. He reaches for Dean, pulls the towel from Dean’s hands to dry himself off, then tosses the towel on the counter, stepping into Dean’s space. He looks at Dean with so much patience and clarity in his eyes as he drags his hand up and down Dean’s side.

Dean doesn’t really have an answer, but he knows the things that are not factors in the equation at all. He figures he can at least put Cas’ mind to rest about those.

“It’s not that I’m worried that introducing you will make it too real, or too intense, or whatever the hell else.” Dean swallows but forces the corny words out of his mouth, gruff; he owes it to Cas. “This is real. And serious. So that has nothing to do with it.”

He sees the way Cas’ eyes light up, but Cas carefully keeps his face blank, probably not wanting to discourage Dean from ever saying anything along those lines again. Dean realizes his arms are still at his sides and he finally reaches back, wraps his arms around Cas’ waist so they’re holding each other. Standing in the kitchen. Wow, this is domestic.

“I think you two will get along. And I’m not worried about you getting his approval. Sam will be all over you, man. Seriously, he’ll love you.”

Cas does smile at that, plants his hands on Dean’s hips and presses a kiss to Dean’s nose.

“What’s holding you back?”

It’s a fair question, and Dean wishes he knew. He started referring to Cas as his boyfriend four months ago. At this point, he can’t envision himself with anyone else. Really, Cas and Sam should’ve met by now, especially since it’s sort of because of Sam that he and Cas met in the first place.

“I don’t know, man.” Dean cups Cas’ cheek. “I don’t. It isn’t you, I swear it isn’t.”

Cas presses their chests together and tucks his head into Dean’s neck, breathes, “I believe you.” They hold each other like that for a minute, guilt washing over Dean in waves because he doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, but he hates to think his own insecurities and irrational fears are making Cas think that their relationship isn’t a real thing.

“Do you want to meet him?” Dean asks, and Cas raises his head, looks at Dean like he’s just begun speaking fluent French.

“Of course I do.”

“Yeah, you’re both nerds,” Dean huffs, and Cas shakes his head.

“No. Well, yes, but— Dean, I want to meet Sam because he’s your brother. He’s important to you.”

And, oh.  _Oh_.

It’s a simple explanation, but it hits Dean low in the stomach. If he’d thought about it, he would’ve been able to rationalize that on his own, yet hearing Cas say it, it affects him in weird ways.

“But I only want to do it if you’re comfortable with it,” Cas finishes, insistent.

Dean gnaws on his lip and looks at his boyfriend, really takes him in. His shirt is soaked from doing the dishes; Dean always gives him shit for it (“ _You should at least try to keep some of the water in the sink, dumbass_ ”). Stupidly blue eyes, hair sticking up in every direction because Cas tends to run his hands through it when he’s stressed and today had been a long shift. He looks at Dean like they’re talking life or death rather than just Dean’s kid brother. That’s kind of how Cas approaches everything.

 _Fuck it_ , Dean thinks. Cas is part of his life, and Cas is going to stay part of his life for a long time to come. He has no quantifiable reason why his two favorite people shouldn’t meet. None.

“When do you work next week? I’ll call Sam. We’ll do dinner.”

Cas beams at him, kisses him hard. “Really? You’re sure?” he mumbles against Dean’s lips, and Dean nods. Yeah. He’s sure of Cas. He can be sure of this.

 

xXxXx

 

Dean didn’t think it was possible, but Sam’s even more thrilled than Cas was.

“Oh my God, really? Really, really?”

“What are you, five? Yes, really.”

Sam cheers and Dean groans, half tempted to take it back, but he won’t. Not if it’s going to make both Sam and Cas this happy.

“I’m around Monday night. He’s off then, right?”

Dean does a double-take. “How do you know Cas’ schedule?”

Sam scoffs. “Easy.  _I listen when you talk._ You guys always do pizza in on Mondays.”

Oh, right. “Okay, Monday works.”

“Do you want to go out somewhere? I can bring Jess, if that’d make you feel better.”

Anxiety clenches a fist in Dean’s chest and he shakes his head. “Can, uh, can we start small? Dinner at your place, just the three of us?” He feels so foolish. “I want Cas to meet Jess, I want all of us to do things, I just. Need to ease into this.”

“Yeah, man. Whatever you want,” Sam replies quickly, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief. “What do you guys like to eat? Do you want me to make your favorite lasagna?”

“Ye—no, wait. Cas is a vegetarian.” Dean chews his lip. “Look, if you do dinner, we can bring dessert. Surprise us. Just, not a meat stew or anything.”

“I can handle that,” Sam agrees readily.

They talk for another fifteen minutes, Sam whining about a professor who’s got it out for him, Dean gushing about the motorcycle he got to fix up last week.

Before they hang up, Sam asks quietly, “What changed your mind?”

Well, Dean almost says, it’s not like he was dead-set against it.

“Cas mentioned it. And I sorta figured it’s time. I dunno.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Sam says quietly, and Dean wants to punch him, but he also kind of wants to hug him. “I’ll see you both on Monday!”

“Yeah, yeah. See you.”

 They hang up and Dean stares at his phone, still feeling a bit of trepidation in his stomach. Then, he remembers.

 

 _+1-650_  
I talked to Sammy. monday night sound good?

 

 _+1-650_  
Perfect. At his house?

 

 _+1-650_  
yeah, if that’s okay. guess what

 

 _+1-650_  
What?

 

 _+1-650_  
we’re in charge of dessert.

 

 _+1-650_  
YES.

xXxXx

 

Monday afternoon, Dean leaves work early (it’s a quiet day anyway) and heads back to Cas’ place. When he comes in, Cas is fresh out of the shower, still toweling his hair off.

“Hey. Can I use your shower?” Dean asks, dropping the keys on the counter. Cas pads over and gives Dean a peck on the lips.

“Yeah, though I’m mad you didn’t get here 20 minutes ago. We could’ve saved water and showered together.”

Dean extracts himself. “Do not get me worked up right now,” he warns. “We are seeing my brother tonight. We don’t have time. Besides, then you’d have to shower all over again.”

Cas steps forward and grabs Dean again easily, pressing them together. “I don’t see a problem with that,” he mumbles, planting his lips at the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder. Cas never minds Dean’s sweaty gasoline smell, which will always boggle Dean’s mind, but he doesn’t have it in him to be too weirded out by it.

“Mmm, I know something we can do, that won’t mean I have to shower all over again.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean says, giving up, letting Cas walk him backwards. Cas sits him on the couch, spreads Dean’s legs and kneels on the floor between them.

Cas smiles, faux innocent. “And it should take no time at all.”

 

xXxXx

 

Admittedly, a fantastic blowjob takes the edge off Dean’s nerves. Who knew.

 

xXxXx

 

Cas goes all out with the dessert. It’s some sort of layered pudding-whipped cream-cake concoction, and it looks gorgeous. Cas meticulously measured out each layer so that they’re the exact same, brown and white stripes up the side of the glass dish. Cas worries that it won’t survive the ride to Sam’s, but Dean insists they can make it before it melts and without jostling the thing. Cas holds it between his legs, pressed against Dean’s back. Dean goes easy on the turns, speeds when the highway is straight, and true to his word, the dish looks just as delectable pulling into Sam’s driveway as it did when they left Cas’.

Sam’s got the door open before they’re even up the stairs. He reminds Dean of a damn puppy.

“Hi! Here, I’ll take that. Holy shit, what is this? Cas must’ve made this, there’s no way you did,” he says to Dean by way of greeting, grabbing the dessert from Dean’s hands and whisking them inside.

“Nice to see you too, Sam,” Dean calls, and Sam reappears to take their coats.

“So you’re Cas,” he says, holding out his hand and shaking Cas’ enthusiastically. “I’ve heard so much about you, man.”

Cas smiles easily. “Same here. Mostly good,” he says, throwing in a wink for good measure.

Sam gets a wicked gleam in his eye. “That’s okay. I’ve got multiple photo albums of Dean’s baby pictures.”

Cas looks too intrigued by that, so Dean grabs his hand and interjects, “Yeah, yeah, there’ll be time to make fun of me later. Right now, I’m starving. What’d you make us, Sammy?”

As it turns out, Sam’s a huge fucking dork, and he went out and bought a vegetarian cookbook. He leads them into the kitchen and shows it to Cas, his chest puffed up in pride.

“Oh, this is one of my favorites!” Cas exclaims, flipping through it slowly. “You’re not a vegetarian, right?”

“He’s not,” Dean cuts in, “but he eats the same rabbit food you do, so it’s not like this is a hardship for him.”

“This one is particularly divine,” Cas says, finding a recipe for vegan spicy buffalo wings. Dean reads over his shoulder.

“What the fuck, they’re made out of cauliflower?”

He’s met with duel bitchfaces. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. You liked that eggplant parm I made you,” Cas reminds him.

“But seriously, cauliflower?” Dean folds his arms. Cas glares right back. Sam steps in and grabs the cookbook from Cas’ hands.

“I made spinach quiche! It should be ready.”

Sam shoos them over to the table, fetches them water and glasses of wine, and then emerges with the quiche, piping hot and, okay, fine, it looks really good.

Sam cuts into it and gives each of them a heaping serving. Cas is about to cut into his when he freezes and turns to stare at Dean.

“What?”

“One of the first times we hung out at the library, you said you were there because Sam was cooking dinner for his girlfriend and you were kicked out.”

Dean’s confused. “What does that have to do with quiche?”

Sam starts chuckling across the table, and Dean still doesn’t get it.

“Dean, you don’t live with Sam.”

“Oh, uh.” Dean smooths the napkin across his lap thoroughly. “I may’ve just wanted to see you.”

Cas kisses his cheek and huffs, “You’re ridiculous.” Sam’s apparently very amused by the whole thing.

Dean takes a bite of quiche, gives Sam and thumbs up, and then responds to Cas, “You’ve got a crazy good memory.”

As they dig in, Sam says around an eggy mouthful, “I already know the story of how you two met, and I gather you must know I’m in law school. So tell me about yourself.”

Cas tells Sam about how he had to work through undergrad, tells Sam about his intentions to get his masters and eventually a doctorate and to be a professor. He and Sam get into a zealous discussion about their favorite classics—talking about Keats and Jimmy Joyce or someone or other, Dean sort of phases out during that part of the conversation. Then Sam asks about Cas’ family, and Dean tenses, moves to give Sam a  _don’t go there_  gesture, but Cas reaches over and slides his hand on Dean’s knee.

“They’re strict. Really strict. Christian, conservative types. They don’t know about my dating habits.”

Sam’s face falls. “Really?” He puts his fork down and gesticulates wildly. “It’s California, man! Why haven’t they woken up to, y’know, smell the roses?”

Cas lifts a shoulder with a sad laugh. “I don’t know. My brother Gabe, he told them that he was working at a restaurant to pay his way through school. When they found out he was a bartender at a strip club, and that that’s how he was able to pay tuition, they disowned him entirely. They kicked him out when he was nineteen.” Cas takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. “I’ve heard from him maybe once or twice since. He called on my birthday last year.”

Sam’s face is etched with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, man.”

No one speaks for two or three minutes. Sam takes a sip of wine and looks back and forth between the two of them. “Do you think you’ll ever tell him about the two of you?” he asks Cas.

Dean hisses, “Sam!” but Cas shushes him, saying, “No, it’s a fair question.”

Cas licks his fork clean and dabs at his mouth with a napkin before he replies. “Well, yes. They’ll know eventually, since it seems like I can’t get rid of him,” he fake grouses, pointing a thumb at Dean. Dean blushes, and Cas gives him a small smile before turning back to Sam. “If I had my way, I’d bring Dean to the house, tell them we’re getting married, and make out in front of them. Or something equally dramatic.” Dean raises his eyebrows. It’s the first he’s heard of this. First time he’s heard Cas mention marriage, either. The thought does really funny things to his gut.

“But I wouldn’t put Dean through that. I think my dad would either punch him or pull out his shotgun. I’ll eventually just tell them, I guess.” Cas glances down, looking a bit guilty. “I just haven’t found the guts to do it yet, I suppose.”

“Hey, man.” Dean intertwines their fingers under the table. “There’s no rush, all right? Hell, as far as I’m concerned, you don’t ever have to tell them. I can stay secret. It’s your parents.”

Cas shakes his head. “No, Dean. You matter. You’re one of the most important aspects of my life.” Dean thinks he hears Sam’s breath catch on a barely suppressed  _aww_  but he ignores it, holding Cas’ gaze. “I don’t want to keep you secret.” He squeezes Dean’s hand. “Maybe you can meet Gabe someday.”

Dean smiles at Cas, in their own world for a minute, before he remembers his brother is present and they both look over at Sam. Kid’s got the sappiest grin on.

Dean clears his throat. “Okay, enough of that. I don’t know about anyone else, but I really wanna dig into Cas’ dessert.”

“So you admit he made it?” Sam laughs, but he’s amenable to the obvious change of topic. He’s still playing host, so he clears their plates and goes into the kitchen, fetches bowls and spoons and finally brings out the cylindrical dish. He places it in the center of the table and sits, and all three of them just stare at it for a minute.

“I feel like it’s too pretty to eat. I don’t want to mess it up,” Sam says reverently under his breath.

Dean snorts. “That’s very sweet of you, but I’m more than happy to mess it up.” He reaches for the cake knife and Sam smacks his hand away.

“No! At least let Cas do the honors!”

“You’re very sweet, Sam,” Cas says, sticks his tongue out at Dean. Cas seems to have no problem messing up his dessert, cutting right into it and spooning some out. He serves Sam first, and then himself, and then Dean. Dean sticks his tongue out right back.

It turns out to be absolutely heavenly. Not that Dean’s surprised, but both he and Sam gush about how good it is for at least five minutes, and they each get two more helpings. Sam’s apologetic when he goes to finish it off, but Cas says, “No, it’s a good thing! I don’t want it in the house, I was going to leave it with you anyway.”

“If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, you’ve won me over, Cas.” Sam meets his brother’s eye. “Dean, you picked a good one.”

Dean just grins. “I know.”

 

xXxXx

 

They sit around afterwards and watch some action flick. Mostly they end up talking through it. Cas asks Sam all sorts of questions about law school with a wistful expression on his face. Dean rubs his back and whispers, “You’ll get there, you will.”

Sam grills Cas about what it’s like to work at the library, confessing that he applied for a job at one of the Stanford libraries but didn’t end up getting it, the hours conflicted with his classes. Dean didn’t know about that, but he’s not even remotely surprised.

“But I think I would’ve liked it,” Sam says mournfully.

Dean snorts. “I don’t know why I was so worried. You two are made for each other.”

He doesn’t fully think his words through until they’re out. It’s not like he was worried about Sam and Cas getting along or approving of one another. He explained that to both of them on separate occasions.

But he’s met with duel dimply grins, and in spite of the warm feeling spreading through his chest, he brushes it off, muttering something about them both being absurd.

Dean’s the first to get sleepy, and he starts to drift off on the couch while Sam and Cas still chat animatedly about something or other, Dean’s not even sure anymore. Then he catches the tail end of one of Sam’s sentences: “…yeah, remember that thing I sent you, the article? Free tuition, that would be so awesome.”

Dean’s eyes fly open and he sits up. “Wait, what?”

They both look over at him. Sam’s forehead does the wrinkly thing it does when he’s confused, and Cas looks like a dog being scolded.

“What don’t I know?”

Sam seems to catch up. “Oh! Cas and I have been texting for months,” he says dismissively.

Dean turns to Cas to confirm, dumbfounded. “Really?”

Cas opens his mouth to respond but Sam cuts in, waving his hand. “Don’t blame him. I stole his number off your phone a few months back. He wasn’t sure about talking to me, he didn’t want to go behind your back. I pushed him and insisted it was fine.” Sam shrugs, obviously not feeling a lick of guilt. “If it’s any consolation, I agreed that we shouldn’t meet in person until you introduced us.”

Dean has to take a second to process it. Cas looks completely sheepish, apologizing to Dean under his breath several times.

The truth is, though, that Dean’s felt guilty for waiting so long. And tonight went so well, Dean doesn’t have it in him to be angry about any of it. He’s full of delicious dessert and he’s got the two most important people in his life together in a room, and he doesn’t know why the hell he was so concerned about any of it.

Still, he won’t go down without a fight.

“I hate you,” he says, jabbing a finger at his younger brother, and then he turns to his boyfriend and says, “I’m not putting out for two weeks.” He settles back against the cushions, leaning against Cas’ shoulder and closing his eyes to doze off again.

Cas huffs and says, “Yeah, you’ll change your mind about that.” Sam just cackles.


End file.
